


in the wild blue yonder, your star is fixed (in my sky)

by Roccolinde



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (is it bragging if someone else said it?), (mostly pining), And Brienne of Tarth Deserves Everything, Arranged Marriage, Canon divergent from 8x04, F/M, I DON'T EVEN GO HERE, I know less than Jon Snow but more than D&D, Jaime Lannister Deserved Better, Pining and Politics, aka So Sad The Last Two Episodes Burnt In a Dumpster Fire Before Airing, artisan slow burn angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2020-03-08 05:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 76,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18887908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/pseuds/Roccolinde
Summary: “I believe, Ser Jaime, that we must be as we have always been to one another.”In the aftermath of war, Ser Brienne of Tarth is helping rebuild Winterfell and bring peace to the seven kingdoms. Which was going quite well for her, until an old oath leads to a politically expedient proposal of marriage.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Allo, I'm back on my bullshit. Because apparently writing a 500 word meta piece about why the storytelling in this season is bad was not half as exciting as sticking these two fuckknobs into a fic on indeterminate length. Don't let the 5 chapters thing fool you, I'm valley of treeing my way through this experience. There will be pining, and anger, and at least one scene of Brienne beating the shit out of Jaime in a fight because that noble duty schtick will snap eventually. And a shitton of handwaving about the world-building elements because my memory is shit. 
> 
> Title is from [Wherever I Go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ACoC2dsmEcY) by Mark Knopfler and Ruth Moody, who make up two of the three artists that have been the soundtrack to this writing experience. It's a rather marvelous Braime song, at least in my head. 
> 
> Canon-divergent from 8.04, because the only good thing in 8.05 was Tyrion and Jaime having a loving brotherly moment (that was ruined by that line about the innocents, but what the fuck ever). #NotMyJaime and all that shit.

In the aftermath of Jaime’s leavetaking, Brienne’s life changes very little. Her bed is cold, and the pitying looks are—not new, but different. Because the message is clear. _Poor Brienne_ , they say, _Brienne the Beauty, nothing more than a distraction._ And her heart… her heart is battered, but does not break. 

“I always knew he would,” she hears men whisper, falling silent when she enters the room.

“Perhaps not all is at is seems,” she hears women speak as she leaves.

She drinks a glass of Dornish wine before bed each night, just the one, and wonders what she would say to him if he sat across from her. _You’ve gone, Kingslayer, for the greater good_ , she thinks. _You are a knight of honour above all else, no matter how you see it._ But this is not the game, and she drinks alone. Rises alone. Executes her duties alone. 

Alone, but not lonely. 

She is not that awkward young girl at the ball any longer. She is not even Kingsguard to Renly Baratheon, to this day one of the kindest men she has known. She is Ser Brienne of Tarth, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, and she has found her place in this world. 

***

It would be wrong to say that the war is won, but it is over at least. Ravens arrive, slowly at first but soon in a flurry, bearing news—the death of Cersei at the hands of her own brother, the death of Daenerys at the hands of Jon. Weeks later, when Jon stops at Winterfell during his journey north, he shares a look with Brienne that says more than all the words in the seven kingdoms could. Arya comes with him. The Hound does not. There is no king, no queen—the Iron Throne is melted down, a simpler throne build to replace it, but it is unoccupied and will remain so unless the rightful claimant returns. He won’t. Tyrion becomes a steward of the South, Sansa of the North. It is too early to say whether it will break the cycle, but their fondness and respect give Brienne hope. Jaime is mentioned by name only once, when the outcome of his trial arrives one crisp morning.

“Trial, ser?” asks Pod. “But he…”

“A formality,” Brienne says, the lie bitter in her mouth. “To ensure that he did not merely align himself with the winning side.”

“He wouldn’t.” 

The conviction with which he says it is fervent. 

“No,” she agrees. She can fault the man for many things, but she is certain his journey south had always been in pursuit of his sister’s death. “But he has been found innocent, and it is not our concern.”

Her squire flinches, but does not quarrel. Their days are occupied in necessary tasks, and she has little time to spare for a man who is a contradiction of honour and selfishness. Winterfell must be rebuilt, its people defended. Sansa has given her the command of the Stewardsguard, but there is so much to be done that she does whatever is needed—it is very different than she had imagined knighthood, very different than her brief time as Kingsguard, but she loves it. 

Sometimes, though not often, she remembers the camaraderie of the men she has lost—a quiet night before a great battle, a game in the aftermath. Pod is still with her, of course, but it was the first time… it had been the first time she had felt truly unconstrained, and she misses it. But the boys from the yards begin to sit at the same table during dinner, speak to her as one of their own—revered, perhaps, but an equal. Lady Sansa, her home and family safe for the first time in years, is more than a liege lady. She misses the men, she suspects that she will always miss those moments, but she is happy. She laughs often, and occasionally dances when the music strikes her just right. 

And then one day a raven arrives and Lady Sansa disappears for hours, and eventually calls for Brienne.

“Ser Brienne,” she says, rising from behind the vast desk to greet Brienne; she looks so like her mother, and Brienne thinks, not for the first time, that Lady Catelyn would be proud. There is a twist to her lips though, a sadness in her eyes, and Brienne is not certain how to respond.

“Lady Sansa.”

“I have received a message from Lord Tyrion.”

There is silence, the fire in the hearth crackling.

“He is well?” Brienne asks after a moment.

“He has… a dilemma. And the solution is,” Lady Sansa spread her hands. “It is a viable solution, if we are to think of nothing but politics. Alliances and allegiances. But I swore to never ask of you something that would bring you dishonour, and I will not go back on my word.”

They are friends, of a sort, and that love, that loyalty, is enough.

“What would you ask of me?”

“Lord Tyrion believes—”

“I did not ask about Lord Tyrion, my lady, I asked what _you_ would ask of me.”

Sansa—and in this moment she is merely Sansa, not the Lady of Winterfell—touches the letter still on the desk as she pauses. Then she looks to Brienne, gaze steady.

“This is beyond your oaths, Ser Brienne. You may accept or reject the proposal, I will not have you think otherwise. And no matter your decision, you will always have a home in Winterfell. But I will also release you if you so choose, with the best horse available to you and the strength of the North at your disposal.”

“Thank you, milady,” Brienne says. Her hand finds the pommel of Oathkeeper, the shape of it beneath her palm soothing; whatever the letter contains has unsettled Sansa, and familiar is most welcome. “Please, ask.”

“Lord Ty—we wish for you to marry.”

“Pardon?”

This must be some jest, though it seems unlike Sansa. A ploy, perhaps, though Brienne cannot imagine to what end. All concerns about the reasons flee when Sansa squares her jaw and takes a deep breath. 

“We wish you to marry Jaime Lannister.”

She laughs, and the sound is bitter in her throat. 

“You cannot be sincere, milady.”

“I’m afraid I am,” Sansa replies. “With the situation as it is… I fail to see an alternative. But I will not allow this to be anything but your choice.”

A hundred spiteful comments die on her tongue—this is not Sansa’s fault, and she has no wish to quarrel. 

“Why?” she finally asks. 

And Brienne knows that this is absurd, but as Sansa lays it out before her it _sounds_ so logical, so necessary. A hero from the South tied to a hero from the North, and a face of the Stormlands tied to both. It is a balanced match—not too clearly political as to be false, nor so insignificant as to be rejected. The union of two of the most notorious fighters, a solid front in the face of dissent.

“Ser Jaime must have fallen upon hard times indeed, if I am his only prospect,” Brienne says, intending to be dry and almost managing so.

Sansa raises an eyebrow.

“You do lack guile, ser,” she says. “A trait rather useful in a knight, but less so in games like these. You are not Ser Jaime’s only prospect—there are half a dozen families who would marry their most eligible daughter to him in a moment, and many more that would at least consider it. When one is unhappy with the state of rule, it is useful to have a kingslayer on your side.”

Brienne does not flinch, but she feels the words in the clench of her jaw, the almost imperceptible tightening of her hand on her sword. She knows what it cost him, Aerys and Cersei both, and it is cruel that it is that reputation and not his merits that makes him valuable now. She, at least, would not demand this of him. She would have demanded nothing from him, once, and it is for that memory that she realises she is weighing the request with sincerity.

“Ser Jaime would not move against his brother or the North,” Brienne says.

“No,” Lady Sansa agrees. “I hold no love for him as a man, but neither his devotion to family or honour is in doubt any longer. But that will not stop those hungry for power from trying.”

It hits her.

“You believe him in danger.”

“We do.”

She remembers, unbidden, one of their nights; he had fallen asleep first and she had studied him, the golden lion turned grey. Seen the weight of his burdens, some inflicted by himself and some by circumstances, but also seen the contentment. Had loved him, fully, for the first time, and swore never to let harm come to him when she could do otherwise. It was an oath meant only for herself, a prism with which to grasp this new world. Nothing more. And that new world had given way to the old the night he left Winterfell. But she is a knight of the seven realms, and her word—even unspoken—is her vow.

“I will need to write to my father,” she says. “He will be pleased for a betrothal likely to amount to something. Might not be pleased it is to a Lannister, but you can never quite tell with him.”

“Please,” Lady Sansa says with a kindness that might feel like pity, “take the rest of the day. Inform those you wish to inform, and I will send a raven to King’s Landing in the morn. As I have spent quite enough time in the south of late, and have no intention of releasing my Stewardsguard for weeks on end, the wedding will need to take place in Winterfell.”

It is both a small mercy to be in her home, and a cruel irony that they will build a marriage in the ruins of what was once real. She falters only once in the weeks between acceptance and the arrival of the retinue from the South.

“I am not certain I have a woman’s courage for this, my lady,” she admits, late one evening when her body is exhausted from a day of hard labour and an evening of arrangements—who must be informed of the event, who must attend, all frivolous details that matter to her little, and to the charade very much. She would rather wield a sword from morning to night, the exertion on her body honest and simple, but this is a game she has chosen to play, and must play well. 

Her liege lady looks up, giving her a kind smile.

“It is a woman’s courage if a woman wields it, Ser Brienne. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

Weeks later, she stands beside Lady Sansa in the same courtyard she’d stood in the night he’d left, the night she begged him to stay, and waits to greet their guests. He arrives first, on horseback and clearly impatient; he swings from the horse and bows, clean-shaven and neat, a man of King’s Landing and very little like the Jaime she knows best. It will be simpler this way. 

A woman’s courage. She draws herself to full height, hand on hilt, as Lady Sansa steps forward. 

“Ser Jaime,” Sansa says, all grace and warmth. “We welcome your return to Winterfell.”

***

It was impetuous, he knows, but the closer they drew to Winterfell, the stronger the call had come, thrumming in his veins. _Brienne. Home. Brienne. Home._ When the sun had risen that morning, he’d been unable to resist any longer; he had saddled his mount and rode as far ahead as he would be allowed. It is not that he expects an eager reunion. If she doesn’t threaten him with a sword, it will be more than he deserves. But it has been a long time since he rode away, her sobs in his ears, and he needs to see her again. Needs the reminder that whatever price had been demanded of him, a Lannister paid his debts.

Needs to know that it was not in vain.

His ride to King’s Landing had not been for her. It had not even been for him, though the assertion is far more believable than the truth—a man known for his selfishness looking for redemption made a much better story than a sense of duty even he could not completely articulate. But the memory of her face over candlelight, the flush in her cheeks and the laughter that spilled from her lips… that was the memory he carried closest as he’d headed south, a reminder when his courage faltered that the living were always worth saving, and to see it now… he needs to know, and so he has come. 

Lady Sansa greets him, Brienne in full armour behind her. The armour he had gifted her so long ago. He wishes he could read into it, but the truth is that it is good armour and time and resources are both short as Winterfell is rebuilt; the stony, unreadable silence of her face says all he needs to know. He does not have time to examine the ache in his gut; he had expected no less, but to see it… 

He dismounts and gives a small bow, the pomp and circumstance so utterly absurd in this new world. 

“Ser Jaime,” Sansa says, stepping forward. “We welcome your return to Winterfell.”

“I only regret our last parting was so hasty,” he replies; the words are good, smooth and charming. Sansa is not charmed; he finds himself biting back a smile. Northern women. “But it is good to be amongst friends.”

Brienne stiffens at that, a flash of contempt that only he would notice, and it is… he hates to hurt her, he does. And if he could unsay the words, he would not hesitate. But there is still some part of him that sees her reaction and _hopes_ , who had needled and pricked at her once before, what had been an entertaining spar turning into a long, slow siege neither had realised existed until they had both surrendered. It is the same impulse that had driven him northward, into this parody of a betrothal; he has tried to think of it as little as possible, in honesty, because it is such a strange and fragile thing. A dream never entertained, his life wrapped in the Kingsguard and Cersei and, eventually, long weeks in Winterfell where nothing could be predicted beyond the next day, the next moment. It is strange to realise that he _wants_ this, truly wants it, and so he does his best to think of it as little as possible.

“Ser Brienne, if you would escort Ser Jaime to his chambers, I will await the rest of our guests,” Sansa says.

“Milady,” Brienne protests with a quiet murmur.

“I am in no danger with Lord Tyrion’s men, and have many of my own at hand.”

Jaime glances around the courtyard; there are soldiers, and men doing their very best not to appear as soldiers, and Arya Stark watching from on high. There is no danger in his retinue, but Lady Sansa has learnt caution. 

Brienne’s acceptance is stiff—it is, of course, so like her to take a vow to protect Lady Sansa so squarely on her own shoulders—but it comes. She nods her head to Jaime and strides from the courtyard; he barely has time to hand his horse’s reins to waiting hands before hurrying to catch up. They do not talk as they move through Winterfell, and move at a speed that makes it difficult for Jaime to assess the progress of Winterfell’s repair. Perhaps it is deliberate. Perhaps he only looks from ingrained habit, assessing fortifications for weaknesses he had no intention of exploiting. 

The room she escorts him to is small, but there is a fire in the hearth.

“You will be moved to my quarters after the wedding, of course,” she says, once the door is firmly shut behind them. She does not look at him. “I’ve taken apartments closer to Lady Sansa, and there are two sleeping chambers. I’ve already set it about that my hours are irregular enough that we will sleep apart.”

While he has done his best to give this little thought, his life has once more been arranged for him. It is hard not to prickle at it, and he does.

“And what if I have no wish to share quarters, wench?”

He would have meant it at one time. She would have seen the affection in it in another. Neither is true now—she looks at him, a pillar of righteous fury as cold as the North she has adopted as home.

“As the Gods haven’t seen fit to claim you yet, Ser Jaime, you will simply have to live until they see otherwise. People wiser than I see this farce as the best option.”

He would argue back, except he has no words for this. Perhaps there _are_ no words for this. For too long they have shrouded too much in games and taunts and meaningful looks, in gifts of Valyrian steel and safe passage.

“You weren’t supposed to wake,” he says. He lifts a pitcher left on a table and examines it closely, if only so he does not feel the weight of her judgement. Perhaps this is all there is left to say. “I watched you for… some time.”

“A knight’s rest is never deep.”

He knows it all too well—the sleep that comes quickly and with vigilance, donned in an instant and shed as quickly in the face of danger. He replaces the pitcher on the table and sits, facing her but not looking up to her gaze. At this level he can see Oathkeeper, resting in its rightful position.

“I’ve never slept with a knight before,” he says, by way of explanation; the memory of their first night is never far from mind, bittersweet now. He strives for flippancy, but needs her to know the truth more and so adds, “But that night… I very much wanted—it was the only way, and still I wanted to stay.”

“You could no more stay than I could follow,” she replies simply. “We each have our oaths.”

“You knew?”

She snorts and his eyes seek hers, bright and steady even in the low light.

“Of course I knew. I might not be the cleverest woman in Winterfell, Jaime Lannister, but I suspect that I am the ones who knows you best. And you were hardly subtle about it.”

He smiles despite himself and glances down at hand and stump, the smile gone in an instant. The golden hand he’d once worn had been stained with Cersei’s blood, caked into the filigree and never entirely clean. He’d had it melted before the trial, quite happy never to see it again; he wonders now if he should have replaced it. 

“If it bothers you, our blacksmith can fashion a replacement before the wedding,” she says. “Won’t be the fineness of the other, but…”

He sighs heavily. 

“I suppose it doesn’t bother you,” he says. It is not a question. “I will hardly cut the fine figure of a bridegroom without one.”

“And I will hardly cut a fine figure for a bride, but we do as we must.”

He can see her as a willing bride, in a tunic of blue and Oathkeeper at her hip. He can imagine no other in her place. He hates many things, but most of all himself, for the moment of inexplicable hope.

“And after?” he asks.

“I believe, Ser Jaime, that we must be as we have always been to one another,” she says evenly. “Unwitting companions on a fool’s endeavor. Friends, perhaps.”

“Is that all?”

“What would you have me say?” she replies, sudden anger flashing in her eyes. “We were not the first soldiers to find refuge in fucking in the aftermath of a battle, even if it did persist longer than most. I suppose at some point an heir will be demanded of us, if we cannot find some way out of this, but I won’t entertain the notion while we are rebuilding Winterfell. So yes, that is all.” 

And he supposes that he should be hurt by the assessment of their time together, but it is her desire to escape the marriage before it has begun that strikes him as sharply as any sword. When she takes her leave a minute later, the brief moment of anger swallowed in favour of flat disinterest, he does not try to stop her. 

He still, somehow, feels more at home than he has since the night he’d left Winterfell. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I am verklempt. And terribly slow to update--somehow "I'd love to get it up every other day" has become nearly a week, and about five more subplots than when I'd posted the first chapter. Turns out I'm pissed off about a lot.

Brienne is in her own quarters before the anger hits, and if she has to walk faster than usual to ensure it, there is nobody to see. _Hateful man_ , she thinks as her door slams behind her, the thought instantly making her feel guilty. But why shouldn’t she think it? He’s said it himself often enough, his list of crimes echoing in her mind if she allows herself to dwell on it. Which she refuses to; she is a Knight of the Seven Realms executing her duty, and if that means tolerating that craven, stubborn, hateful _arse_ of a man, it would be far from the worst demand thrust upon her. And if she’d pummel him as eagerly as she’d pummel those who would threaten him… well, she was entirely allowed her own feelings on the matter, so long as she doesn’t let it interfere with her duty. 

(The very worst part is that she knows the anger is not near so deep as she would like to believe, because she’s not certain she wouldn’t have done the same thing in his place. If it had been Podrick or Sansa or Arya to protect, if it had been her father or even Jaime himself in the Red Keep—would her own sense of honour have chosen otherwise? Would she have trusted another to do what was rightfully her duty? But that ambiguity does not take away from the fact that he _did_ , and she was left powerless. _“Have you ever run away from a fight?”_ he had asked that night, standing before her but already gone. As if it were simple. Perhaps it should have been. Perhaps it might have been, once. But she hates this uncertainty almost as much as she hates him for exposing it, which is to say very much and not at all. But it is done and cannot be changed now, and they must simply forge ahead with as much equanimity as possible.)

Brienne has very little patience for the games played at court, but even she knows that it would be suspicious to rejoin Lady Sansa so soon after a reunion with her betrothed, so she removes her armour and sits at a small desk—there are reports to go through, about all manner of things pertaining to the castle repairs and fortifications, recruitment and training, and there are not enough hours in the day to get through them all. She pauses to lay more wood on the fire from time to time, but is otherwise engrossed until there is a knock on her door; it is Lady Sansa, carrying a large, wrapped bundle.

“The guests have arrived and been shown their rooms,” she says, stepping inside and setting the bundle upon a chair. Her eyes sweep the room and land on the reports littering Brienne’s desk. “Are there any pressing matters?”

“No, milady. Much the same as ever—repairs are slower than we would like, but faster than we could have expected. Another month ought to do it, if we run into no further delays. My attempts to turn soldiers into guards should have a respectable Stewardsguard by the sennight after that, despite our depleted forces.”

“Good, good,” says Lady Sansa. She is silent for a moment, and Brienne waits; it is clear the younger woman has come for some purpose as yet unmentioned. 

“Is there something you require, milady?” she eventually asks.

Sansa smiles; in another time Brienne might have regretted her bluntness, but not here and not now. Sansa repays her with her own honesty. 

“It is not too late to send him home, if you wish,” she says. “Odious man.”

“He…” Brienne’s defense of him dies on her lips, no more than a whisper in her mind; there is a temptation in this offer, but it will not change the reasons they are here to begin with. She raises her chin slightly. “That will not be necessary, milady. Ser Jaime was perfectly tolerable, and you yourself pointed out the necessity of the arrangement.”

“Still, Brienne… I have had my share of unhappy marriages. I refuse to force one upon a friend.”

She thinks, perhaps, she should take Sansa’s hands at the kindness and the sorrow that forged it, but she is too awkward to move. So she nods stiffly instead.

“Ser Jaime will not be an unkind husband,” she says. “He has no patience for men who take what is not offered, and is loyal to those he calls kin. To a fault, perhaps, but he will do me no harm.”

Sansa nods. “It is a strange thing to believe, when the man has killed his own blood—”

“Justified, milady.”

“—though I recognise the circumstances were exceptional. And you are amongst friends here.” She gives a small smile. “Very well. If you are certain, I have a gift for you.” 

“That’s not—”

“Allow me this, Brienne,” Sansa says, and for a moment Brienne can see the earnest young girl Catelyn had once sent her to protect. She acquiesces. 

The bundle set aside is retrieved and proffered, and Brienne unfolds it carefully. Inside is a doublet of darkest navy, a Stark direwolf surrounded by sun and stars embroidered on the breast in silver thread. By Sansa’s own hand, no doubt. 

“For your wedding,” Sansa explains. “So that you may remember that you are a woman of Tarth and a woman of the North, and have the strength of both.” 

Brienne touches the wolf, tears in her eyes.

“Thank you, milady,” she says.

For the gift, for her friendship. For everything. 

***

His small room is fifteen paces each direction, counted again and again as he moves; in another lifetime he might have thought himself as a caged lion, but he knows he is only a man, for better or worse. (For better, he believes, but it is not his call to make.) The last months in King’s Landing had been… fraught, to say the least. Cersei first, then the Targaryen madness, the aftermath of war, the political maneuverings that not even destruction of the capital could stop. Tyrion’s suggestion he head North and marry Brienne of Tarth for his own protection had, somehow, been the first sensible thing he’d heard in far too long. In hindsight, it is entirely possible that his grasp of sensible was deeply flawed. 

He is still pacing, restless, when Podrick arrives, Jaime’s trunks carried in behind him. The men carrying them are dismissed, but Pod remains. 

“I am pleased to see you, ser,” he says, and Jaime tries to hide his grimace. It’s not the young man’s fault that his earnestness persists.

“You might be the only one in all of Winterfell,” he says, the joke landing poorly. There is too much truth in it, and he lacks Tyrion’s wit. 

“No, ser,” says Pod. “I reckon every man who saw you fight for Winterfell will be happy to have you back, even if they fail to understand why you left to begin with.”

The words are delivered with a smile, but Jaime hears the question beneath it, and he wishes there was a clever answer. A true, simple platitude that will absolve him of all his past decisions. He shrugs instead. 

“Perhaps I was just too soft for the North.”

“No,” says Pod, still adamant. “She would never—” his mouths shuts quickly, as if he’d betrayed some great secret, and however pleased he is to see Jaime, it is clear where his loyalty lies. 

Sending Pod with Brienne might very well have been the best decision he has ever made. 

“No,” Jaime agrees softly. “She would never. May we all do our best to live up to that fact.” 

What else is there to say? Pod helps him unpack his trunks and neither mentions the spectre of his soon-to-be-wife, his former lover, the woman who is the one shining spot in a sea of shit, who wades into that sea with no hesitation because it is the right thing to do, the woman who pulls you along in her wake until you cheerfully follow her simply because it doesn’t stink quite so much when you know you’ll come out the other side. And he loves her, he’s not a fool, and even if he _was_ the memory of her hand on his cock and the flush of her skin and the gods-cursed way she _laughed_ , so deep and sincere, would be enough to dissuade him of any illusions, but the truth is that even if he didn’t love her she would still be the best woman he knew, the best knight, and how do you even try to capture that? How do you live up to that blinding _faith_ when she turns that brilliance towards you, trusting but never demanding that you swim out to meet her? 

(And he does, even if he’s half-certain he’ll drown, once-atrophied muscles aching at the exertion; even if she disappeared tomorrow, called off the betrothal and fled from Winterfell and refused to ever utter his name again, even then he would still swim because he doesn’t know how to _stop_ , and he doesn’t want to.)

They do not talk about Brienne, but they talk of the repairs at Winterfell, the organisation of the Northern Stewardsguard, minor disagreements amongst the smallfolk; small things, small _weaknesses_ , details Jaime could leverage in a fight. He would think Pod a fool for sharing so much, but in a lull of the conversation he catches Pod _looking_ at him, daring him to betray this trust, and all Jaime can think is that his first instinct was to _defend_ Winterfell, because this is where he is, where his allegiance lies, and she had been right that night, the North grew on you if you weren’t careful. 

By the time they are done, dinner is ready in the Great Hall and they head there together. The guests who had ridden North with him are at one table—Jaime almost peels away to join them, but Pod is saying something about the training schedules and so he finds himself seated with a group of Stark men instead. Brienne joins them shortly after, and at his surprised glance mutters that Lady Sansa was taking dinner in her quarters. He’s not entirely certain what to say—he doesn’t wish to insult her, which is what she likely expects, but his genuine concern will be no more welcome—and either way it doesn’t matter because he hesitates a half-second too long and one of the other men speaks up, a cocky little shit of maybe five-and-twenty that he know, he _knows_ , is going to be be a problem from the second he sits a little straighter and opens his mouth.

“Go on then,” he says, looking between Jaime and Brienne with a leer, “Give us a kiss.”” 

Beside him, Brienne stiffens. Maybe it’s anger, maybe it’s fear, but either way he knows how it will play out—she has decided this illusion of marriage is important, it’s right, and so she’ll kiss him even though she doesn’t want it, and he just can’t. He can’t kiss her like this, and he can’t discipline a man that isn’t his, and he can’t do nothing, so he nudges her leg with his right arm, a silent plea to let him lead, and smiles at the man in a manner that is just the right side of predatory, a smile that has made great men quake, never mind some Northern shit who probably doesn’t know which way to hold his sword. 

Then he waits.

The rest of the Great Hall is filled with the sounds of people dining, but the silence enveloping the table stretches out like an icy night. He can sense Brienne’s confusion at his reaction, but then again she would. She has known the cruelty of words, has witnessed the powers of gossip, a whisper here and a whisper there until the entire world could collapse; but to understand, bone deep, is another thing, and somehow even cruelty is straightforward when directed at her, like some twisted shadow of the honesty she inspires. To her the request might be sincere, or a mockery, but the idea it has nothing to do with the request, not really, would never occur to her in the moment. 

It occurs to him. 

The other men are looking between Jaime and the troublemaker, any inclination to laugh fading quickly. When Jaime is certain they are more on his side than the other, he turns the smile jovial.

“Do you know,” he says amiably, “I spent most of the ride North thinking about that very thing.” _To kiss her is no jape, no cause for humour_. “I was stricken with a terrible pleurisy on the road North, however, and have been advised restraint.” _I will not do as you command, I will not give this power to you._ “A disappointment, of course, but it would not do to make my bride ill so close to the wedding .” _She is my concern, and I will not risk harm coming to her._

The message is seemingly received by all but Brienne herself, who spends the meal with the low, simmering rage she can hide from all but him. The conversation moves on, and Jaime finds himself laughing along—whatever game one man had tried to play, it is clear that Brienne is a beloved commander, fair and clever and respected. He watches the table, when he is not watching her, and sees the loyalty offered to her without charge or reservation; loyalty that she deserves, that she has earnt. 

Eventually the meal is done and she rises sharply.

“Ser Jaime,” she says, “if I may have a word?”

He stands and follows her from the Great Hall and into the corridor. There’s a small recess in the wall and she pulls him towards it, angrily, until they are standing a hair’s breadth apart so their voices don’t carry. This near he can smell her; a sweet hint of sweat and leather, honest and familiar, and he wants to bury his head against her neck, feel the pulse of her throat against his tongue. 

“What in the seven hells were you thinking?” she hisses, her blue eyes searching as if she really needs to learn the answer. “I’m sure it’s a terrible prospect to kiss me, but this is your _life_. If we have to—”

“He doesn’t care,” he says with feigned nonchalance, because it is safest that way. 

Her lips press together and he suddenly needs her to understand, needs her to know that he isn’t being flippant, that actually he knows _precisely_ what is on the line, and he’s not going to dishonour her even if she really would rather he choke to death on his own hubris, but this isn’t about that and he won’t sit back and watch her hard work fall to pieces because some kid fancies himself clever. 

“He doesn’t care about that,” he repeats. “All the pretty lords and ladies that come sniffing around like hunting dogs? They might care, those hypocritical bastards, if it allows them to find some tiny crack to wedge their venomous words. And I will simper and play their games, and speak of the union of the realms, and take my bloody piss breaks at the same time you do at every bloody event we have to attend, so they think we are slipping away for a bloody rut in a dark bloody corner.” 

She flushes at that and he isn’t even trying to goad her, and the worst part is that he can see it now, they're in a little alcove just like this and she’s got him pinned against the wall and his hand has slipped down her trousers and she’s making that _sound_ against his mouth, that one she makes when she’s about to shatter around him, and her lips are hot, and he can’t think about this now, not ever, he made his choice but he’s still swimming because how could he do otherwise? 

“They might, _might_ , care,” he says. “But that shit? He was testing the commander of the Stewardsguard because men like him can’t _stop_ themselves from trying to scramble up every damn crack they can find, and you either knock them down or dismiss them, because you sure as shit can’t trust them at your back in a fight.”

And it pains him to see her the befuddlement on her face, as if such a thought had never occurred to her—she is a knight of the realms, a commander of the Northern Stewardsguard, a survivor of The Long Night, she has proven herself so many times over that it is almost staggering, and still, _still_ , the idea that she is not alone, she is never _alone_ , that someone will have her back… still it surprises her. As quickly as the emotion appears it is gone, and she nods stiffly, her voice neutral.

“Thank you, Ser Jaime, for your advice,” she says. “Sleep well.”

And then she is gone. 

***

The wedding is, thankfully, small. The sept is still under repair, and so many guests wait for the feast that comes after. Lady Sansa has overseen the arrangements herself, and it is not until the ceremony begins that Brienne realises how carefully her liege lady had weaved her influence on proceedings. There is no father to escort Brienne to her intended—they begin the ceremony together, Brienne in her doublet and Jaime in silver instead of Lannister red and gold. The promises asked of them are similar enough to the words of old to appease the witnesses, but commit her the least to oaths she would not choose to make. When Jaime places his cloak upon her, his single hand fumbling (and all she can think is that the sept is so hot, thinks of the fire and that night and the warmth of Dornish wine and the way she’d taken what she’d wanted, oaths be damned)... when he places his cloak upon her, she places hers upon him, and _this_ at least feels right. 

She thinks that Sansa must have known that even Brienne had dreamt of a wedding once, before she realised there was another path possible, and has done what she can to make the reality as little like those dreams as possible, to spare her that pain at least. 

(Still, when they return to their quarters before the wedding feast and part to refresh in their separate chambers, she cries. Hot, fat tears that dampen her doublet but do not show against the dark fabric, and she wonders if Sansa had known that too.)

There is a knock on the door, and Jaime’s voice through the heavy wooden door.

“Ser wife?”

She splashes water upon her face, straightens her doublet. Catches a glimpse of herself in a looking glass, far from a bride. She strides across the room and opens the door, scowling at him.

“I do believe I preferred wench,” she says. “Come, we will miss the meal.”

He offers his arm and she accepts, doing her best not to feel absurd. The walk to the Great Hall is spent in silence. She thinks of the Meeting of the Stewards in a year’s time; she will do her best to protect Jaime Lannister until then, for whatever else might be, he is her husband. And perhaps, by then, they will have found an alternative and this sham can be left in the past.

(As they eat and toast and dance, she watches the firelight on his face and wishes, just for a moment, that they had arrived here by some other means.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are the loveliest. ♥♥♥

Their first month of marriage is an uneasy truce. (Perhaps not a truce, you need trust to have a truce, and Jaime is uncertain whether she trusts him, but he certainly does not trust himself.) They are cordial in public. Several times a sennight Jaime takes himself in hand and leaves the evidence on the sheets, well aware of how servants talk. Ten days into the experience he returns to the apartment expecting it to be empty and instead finds her puzzling over some papers, a furrow in her brow.

“Are all men as pig-headed as you?” she asks without glancing up, and he cannot stifle his snort of disbelief.

“Probably not,” he says. “What have I done?”

“Not you, them.”

It requires a great deal of exasperation to make her this talkative—he remembers all too well the art of goading her, back on that long journey to King’s Landing—and more than a modicum of trust to show it. Perhaps that is enough. (It is not enough, but it is still more than he deserves.)

He moves closer.

“Come now, wench,” he says—she is Ser Brienne in public, always, but alone he calls her wench, in deference to her comment the night of their wedding, and if there is more affection in the insult than there had once been, that is not in his control, “what troubles you?”

Her expression would quell wiser men. 

“Fenton Waters,” she scowls, and at his blank look explains, “the man who demands entertainment with his supper. And before you go stalking off to defend my honour—”

“I shan’t,” he says absently, craning his neck to read the papers before her. Reports from the training and Fenton’s insubordination. “His actions are in defiance of the Commander, not my wife. It would do your authority no good.” She seems genuinely surprised by the comment and he shrugs. “If you believe every Lannister recruit and bright-eyed Kingsguard was pleased to serve under a Kingslayer…”

“More fool them,” she mutters, and the tips of her ears blush when she realises he heard. She firms her jaw though and pushes on. “I suppose you simply roared until they complied?”

He chuckles and she smiles, a sudden bloom of warmth, and this is the first moment he feels the truce they have hedged around, and strangely he feels a little more himself for it.

“I did try,” he admits. “It very rarely worked.”

“You’re not half so intimidating as you like to believe.” 

“You wound me, wench,” he says dramatically. “Perhaps I will not help you after all.”

“You will,” she replies with certainty. “It’s the right thing to do.”

He does, more fool him. 

***

Lady Sansa’s quarters are near to Brienne’s own, which makes it simpler when Sansa calls upon her at odd hours—both women are, it seems, occupied most of their waking minutes, and sometimes a cup of tea late into the night is all they can snatch for matters of the Stewardsguard. Sansa had fallen asleep once, and Brienne had covered her with a fur and snuck towards the door; she’d roused just enough to thank Brienne, for she did not believe she could do half so much without her allegiance, and Brienne had felt her cheeks burn at the compliment. The rebuilding of Winterfell, even now, all these months later; the forming of the Northern Stewardsguard; the new form of rule… it is difficult, for both of them, but there is little Brienne believes in more. 

Which is why, precisely, she is knocking on a heavy wooden door well into the nighttime hours instead of heading to sleep as she’d intended. 

“Come in, Brienne.”

There is a fire in the hearth, and a small spread of food on the table. Lady Sansa is reading more papers, but looks up and smiles warmly when Brienne closes the door behind her.

“You requested me, Lady Sansa?”

“Take a seat, please,” Sansa says. “It feels I have hardly _seen_ you this past fortnight, even when you’ve been by my side.”

Brienne knows the feeling all too well. 

“Now that Lord Tyrion’s men have returned to King’s Landing, perhaps we will both have less to do,” she says diplomatically. They had not been _bad_ men, necessarily, just far too accustomed to the relative warmth and comforts of the South. Two weeks had been too long. 

Nodding impassively, Sansa takes a morsel from the plates before her and looks at Brienne. 

“And your husband? I am sure there can be some reason made to send him away from Winterfell. All the way south, if needs be. His brother might even be glad to see him back.”

Brienne sighs. She knows the sharp barbs are Sansa’s manner of asserting allegiance and assuring Brienne that, whatever might come and however unfortunate the situation is, she had friends, but those are Sansa’s comforts, not hers. She prefers to think about it as little as possible, merely a vaguely-unpleasant oath to uphold which can be best achieved by polite distance. 

(She almost believes it, except when she allows herself to remember their conversation a few days before. Him and her, antagonism and understanding, honour and duty and how to succeed. It had felt, ever so briefly, like _before_. Before they were together, before he left, before the Gods-forsaken parody of a marriage, when they were simply Jaime and Brienne, two knights in spirit if not in flesh.)

“He has been perfectly kind,” she says, “and it would hardly do to send him away so soon. Unless the threats against him are no more?”

Sansa shakes her head.

“There there really can be no discussion of it,” Brienne says. “And no time to even if we were so inclined.”

“No,” agrees Sansa, and gestures to the food. “Please, help yourself. I know you missed the evening meal.”

She had—Pod had brought her something at midday, when she had been running the newest recruits through an assessment of skills (and oh, there always seemed to be a stream of new recruits, and slightly less new recruits who weren’t coming along as quickly as she’d like, and a few who might eventually be worth the training, and even fewer who were actually experienced and growing antsy with nothing to do), but otherwise she hasn’t eaten since the morning. She tucks in while Sansa brings her up to date on her schedule, meetings and travel that will require Brienne’s personal attendance, murmurs of dissent in far corners that might be quelled with a display of kindness and strength (Brienne will send a guard of her gentlest men to the town where a fever has stricken and killed half the population, to bring them supplies, though they can ill-afford it)—all the points where Sansa and Brienne’s authorities intersect, and a few that simply burden Sansa enough that she wishes to speak of them, and when she is done Brienne begins her own litany of updates. The Stewardsguard’s purview is wider than the Kingsguard of old, sworn to the protection of the realm and to its stewards only when the stewards act in its best interest, and the truth is that they are still learning the shapes and limits of it. It is not made simpler by the number of men dead or wounded in one war or another. 

The meal is long gone when they are done, and Brienne can feel exhaustion tugging at her body.

“There is one more thing,” Sansa says as Brienne stands to leave, and she sinks back into the chair. “Fenton Waters.”

His behaviour is such a small thing, in comparison, that it had slipped Brienne’s mind. His petulance is frustrating, but there are plans in place to dismiss him if he continues. (Plans which are all the better for speaking to Jaime of them, but only a fool would ignore good advice because of its source.) An irritation, but Brienne is uncertain how he could have come to Lady Sansa’s attention. 

“What of him, milady?”

“How well do you know him?”

“Not well,” Brienne says honestly; he is far from her favourite recruit, and probably her biggest headache. “He came north with the army when they returned, and ingratiated himself amongst the men though he’s from King’s Landing. He’s overly confident and thinks highly of his own merits. I would say that he doesn’t seem to care for having a lady commander, but the truth is that he’s equally awful to the men who command him—I suspect that it is authority he does not care for. But he can swing a sword with speed and accuracy, and training might take care of the rest. Cocksure boys can become great men if they learn the right lessons. ”

_Like Jaime Lannister_ , speaks a mutinous little voice in her head. And it’s true that he’s a particularly good example, even if the lessons came later than expected, but this is really not the time to mention him, and she’d rather not think of him at all, though obviously that ship has sailed. Sailed and passed the horizon, and probably sunk by sea monsters from the deep. She still doesn’t say it. 

Lady Sansa still hears all she does not say.

“Great men or monsters,” she remarks. “And perhaps sometimes both.”

“Perhaps,” Brienne replies. 

Sansa is quiet for a moment, taking a sip of the wine she’d been nursing all evening. 

“As for Fenton Waters, I have my own… suspicions of his reasons for coming to Winterfell. He has been seen sending ravens, and slipped a note to one of Lord Tyrion’s men before they left.”

“A spy?”

There is no way to react but horror—he’s not a sworn Stewardsguard, not yet, but he is a recruit and she should have known this. Sansa’s face is not disappointed, but does not offer absolution either. There is too much to do and not enough time to do it, and they both know they will be judged more harshly for it. 

“Arya has followed him, Ser Brienne. He has been cautious. And this is why what I must say next is… complicated,” says Sansa, and then a storm crosses her face. “There have been reports that he is… lewd, towards the servant girls. Threatening, though I don’t believe he’s made good on those threats. It is very good to know who is spilling your secrets, so you can ensure the right secrets are spilled, but I will not tolerate this in my home and I know you will not either.”

His transgressions are said with such calmness, a truth of the world, but Sansa’s refusual to tolerate it is too, and Brienne would happily turn him out to the cold at this exact moment, even if that meant he was in bedclothes when it happened. _Especially_ if it meant he was in his bedclothes when it happened. 

“I will dismiss him in the morning,” she says.

“If it comes to it,” Sansa replies, “you will have my full support. But I will ask you, perhaps unfairly, that you first attempt another route. He is valuable, if we can keep him.”

A rot left to fester, in Brienne’s opinion, but perhaps. At the very least she could have Pod stick with him as a deterrent—claim that it is the next step in his training, appeal to that cockiness. Pod is a good lad, and clever; she will miss him while he embarks on this task, but he will thrive for it. It is worth trying, at least, if it would please her lady. 

“I will do my best, Lady Sansa,” she says, standing once more and bowing. “For now, we should both rest. Good night.”

“Good night, Ser Brienne,” Sansa says, inclining her head. “And please do try to eat your meals.”

***

Jaime Lannister has survived years of court intrigues, countless tournaments, battles of an immeasurable scale, being held prisoner, the loss of his sword hand, dragons, wights, and (though sometimes it staggers him more than the others) the death of his twin through his own choices. Not a single one of these things was as likely to lead to his demise as the sheer fucking _inanity_ of the North.

Oh, it had been boring before, dragon queens and winter and the looming sense of death that had become so oppressive that fear had merely led to dullness. But there had been good moments too, and more importantly there had been a _purpose_. And the first few weeks back in Winterfell had not, perhaps, been entirely awful, if one could ignore the fact the woman he was married to can barely stand to look at him and their host was, at best, begrudging of his presence. But now the men who had accompanied him north had returned home, and with them the last real responsibility he had. The training yards are full from first light to last, so he cannot train. His counsel is not sought, there are no men his to command. He assists in the rebuilding of Winterfell where he can, but a one-handed and untrusted man is assigned jobs out of pity bought with his survival of the Long Night and it simply chafes in different ways. Podrick, at least, does his best to provide some company, his allegiance to Brienne a weight between them, until one day he is sitting with Fenton bloody Waters at breakfast instead, and as Jaime still thinks the best thing to do with that petulant little arse is knock a few teeth out, he takes his meal back to his quarters and then spends the morning reading a book that is so deeply boring that he would fall asleep if he was not so restless—whatever accusations people might rightfully levy at him, Jaime has never been particularly good at sitting idle.

By the third day Pod is sticking to Fenton Waters like his life depends on it, Jaime suspects that the reasons are more than a general irritation with Jaime’s choices. A suspicion he handles with his usual amounts of grace and tact, which is to say none at all—when Brienne returns to the apartment that evening he does his best to be look at ease, a Lannister lion well aware of the prey within his sights as he lounges in a chair by the hearth. 

“You wound me, wench,” he says arrogantly. “Sending away my gift like that.”

“Piss off,” she replies, more of her attention on the removal of her armour than on him.

“I’d have Podrick back, if you’ve tired of him.”

She pauses then, looking at him incredulously; her eyes catch the light of the fire he has dutifully kept stoked (it is, perhaps, the only kindness he can do for her in these circumstances, because it benefits him as well) and he wonders how he ever found her ugly when such kindness and strength and inner conviction shine through in every glance.

“Podrick is not an item to be passed around,” she says, then continues to undress; a solider with a soldier’s sense of nudity, not a woman for a man.

(He’d had both, once, and the exquisite beauty in that balance had been more happiness than any man had dared to hold.)

When the armour is gone, he tries again.

“Have a drink with me, wench,” he says.

“I don’t indulge.”

“Liar,” he says, giving her a smile meant to charm, “but I’ve brewed some tea.”

She lumbers over and he realises how exhausted she must be, for if he has nothing to do in Winterfell, she has too much. She sits and takes the tea he has poured with an expression approaching gratitude. 

“You could have sent me,” he says softly, “rather than losing Pod.”

She doesn’t deny it.

“You hate the man,” she says. “It would have done no good.”

Jaime is fairly certain that it would have done quite a bit of good, and last they spoke she’d seen the wisdom in dismissing him before his rebellious nature spread. 

“You cannot be so starved for recruits, the yards are full of them.”

She shakes her head slightly, and he doubts she notices; she has never been a good liar, not to him, and her expression says she’s not pleased to be one now, and the truth strikes him. They need Fenton Waters where he is, and the list of reasons for that is terribly small. _Fuck._

“And here I came North in the hopes of avoiding intrigue,” he says, because _if he is a threat he must be removed_ is far too on point. “Should I worry for my own well-being?”

“No harm will come to you,” she says, without hesitation and with certainty, like it is a truth that she will _make_ true simply by willing it so. He’s known her long enough to believe she would. 

“And what of you?”

“No harm will come to me either,” she says. “Or any unwilling girl in Winterfell.”

She sips her tea, her eyes drifting shut as she swallows, exhaustion lining her features, the paleness of her skin making her seem more marble than flesh. He is filled with a perverse urge to bring her to bed, to kiss and touch her softly until the tension eases, until her skin flushes and she comes alive beneath him, another pleasure that had been his for all too brief a time.

“If you wish to help,” she says, breaking the sudden silence, “speak with Pod. More eyes on him can only do good.”

He murmurs an agreement and she sets her teacup aside.

“Thank you,” she says, standing stiffly, “for the tea.”

He does not move until the door to her chamber has closed behind her, and in the morn he catches Pod before breakfast. It is a hurried conversation and Jaime is uncertain whether the young man has the full breadth of it—he is more deserving of that confidence, but less schooled in the various forms of courtly subterfuge, and honestly the less people who know the better it is—but either way, a battle plan is set. And in the evening he finds Brienne at her writing desk, brow furrowed over yet more duties of the Stewardsguard.

“Have a drink with me, wench,” he says impulsively. “I have news.”

She acquiesces, not entirely happily; he tells her of the plans he’s made with Pod, she mentions her current trouble in return. He offers advice—there are many ways the Stewardsguard is different, their marriage alone is proof of that, but it does not mean he is entirely without insights. 

The routine is occasional at first, but quickly becomes part of his days—never more than the length of a single drink, but she asks his opinion on matters that she has been unable to resolve. _Considers_ his opinions, neither rejecting nor blindly following; Sansa Stark had chosen well in a commander, green though she might be in the role. Far better a leader than he had ever been, certainly. He is more than happy to share his opinions for a chance to sit with her those few minutes, to feel useful and welcomed, to bask in the warmth of her because the North is too fucking cold. 

One evening, perhaps a month after the wedding he feels is nothing more than a vague dream, he finds her seated at the table instead of the small writing desk, an empty chair beside her, and he allows himself to imagine that she enjoys these moments too.


	4. Chapter 4

_He kisses like he fights. Ruthless. Relentless. But she knows his weaknesses, lunges and parries and fights him for every inch of ground until they are stumbling towards the bed, and they’ve always been good at sparring—with words, with swords, with the sweep of his tongue against her teeth and the tangle of her fingers tightening in his hair, and really isn’t fucking just more of the same? The sparks of pain when he brushes against her battle-bruised body remind her that she is alive and that’s what this is, what it has to be. Except she pulls away slightly so she can see the laces of his trousers and glances up to his face, lips parted and eyes blown wide, and he looks utterly **wrecked** for her, like he can’t imagine that he’s here and there’s nowhere else he could possibly be, and when her lips find his again the touch is softer but no less adamant and she’s not entirely certain how to do this, but she will. _

_She undresses them both as he distracts her, his teeth at the juncture of her neck and his hand at her breast and this groan deep in his chest every time he finds some new expanse of skin, like he can’t stop touching her, like she is the most desirable creature in all of Westeros, and Seven help her, she believes him. So she undresses him and he unravels her, and when they are both naked she thinks she must press him onto the bed and keep kissing him; but she’s forgotten the game and sees his movement too late, a feint left and a spin and a foot caught behind her leg that sends her sprawling against the blankets, and he looks so **pleased** with himself._

_“Still strong enough,” he says, and she laughs a breathless laugh and pulls him down atop of her._

_She thirsts for him, like a woman so accustomed to the desert heats she’s never known the salty-sweet tang of his sweat against her tongue, the cooling slide of skin against skin leaving gooseflesh in its wake. So she swims in him, the waters dark and deep. And then he **looks** at her and there is playful mischief in his eyes, making him ten years younger. _

_“Do you trust me?”_

_And she’s planning to make some cutting remark, because if he doesn’t know by now there’s really no hope for him, but his hand is doing some positively exquisite motions against the round of her hip and she bites back a moan instead and nods eagerly. He kisses down her body, teasingly slow, seeking every point that makes her moan and writhe, every soft underbelly to her defenses, and he’s so tender with it that she **lets** him. _

_And then he’s between her legs and really she’s not thinking of much at all, just the warm press of his tongue and the furs gripped in her fist and the heat from the fire and the scrape of his beard against her inner thighs, eyes screwed tight, and she remembers a wind-swept cliff back in Tarth she’d tried to climb, the burning tension in her muscles and the fear of being dashed upon the rocks below if she fell, and she wants him closer, so close, and she wants to reach the top of the cliff, and she’s panting and trembling and seconds from falling and then he **growls** , “Must you fight everything, woman?” and she looks at him, really looks at him, his mouth hidden by the slope of her body and his eyes hungry and amused and she knows she’s going to slip into the tempestuous waters below._

_“I have you.”_

_She falls._

_She is not dashed upon the rocks; it is the water of a riptide, deep and unexpected and impossible to fight, but she knows to ride it out and comes, eventually, to the other side, exhausted and safe, and she tugs at him, wants more of him. Guides him inside her, gasping at the sweet stretch and the way he still looks wrecked and if he’s a riptide than maybe she’s a lighthouse and anyway it doesn’t matter, because they are moving together now and he makes love how he fights, ruthless and relentless and skillful, only this time they are on the same side of this battle, and she knows his strengths and his weaknesses and how to cover both, and they know how to do this too._

  


She wakes from darkness, an aching throb between her legs; a hand slips beneath the furs to deal with it, circle, press, circle, press, until she peaks, quick and perfunctory, an inconvenient demand of a body that has never betrayed her, and falls back to a dreamless sleep. 

***

It is almost embarrassing how eager Jaime is to return to their quarters this evening, much earlier than he otherwise would, only it has been several weeks of being only slightly less bored than he was before and finally, _finally_ , between himself and Pod and the Stark girl who he’d caught lurking several times (he suspects she did so deliberately so he’d bring her in on whatever is going on, and it’s hardly as if she _needed_ his permission, so the whole thing feels rather like a peace offering of sorts even if they never say so), _finally_ they have managed to read one Fenton Waters’ messages before it was sent off. The whole thing was really rather clever and also involved Jaime acting a fool, so not only is the information useful, but he can’t help but think it will make Brienne laugh. It makes him laugh, at least, which is a rather pleasant surprise.

Which, of course, means that when he opens the door to their apartment she is actually _pacing_ in front of the fire, an expression on her face that is somewhere between anger and horror, a letter in her hands. When she sees him she gives a strangled laugh, and he’s never seen her like this, frantic and half-mad. 

“My father has sent a gift,” she says, waving the paper. “A childhood friend from Tarth will arrive in less than a week, to congratulate us in person and present us with some family heirloom he’s no doubt pulled from storage.”

“A week?” he asks, because somehow that feels like the safest thing to question. It is a conclusion he questions when her nostrils flare.

“Oh yes. Adalys speaks as if we should have received his raven weeks ago, and I suppose it’s possible some dreadful fate befell the poor creature, but I think it infinitely more likely that my father send no such message because he knows I’d have arranged to be elsewhere if given enough time. But I can hardly leave Sansa on so little notice, now can I? Not with the Stewardsguard still being—” she exhales loudly. “I love my father, I do, but… I do not have _time_ for this.”

“For a gift?”

“For some completely useless trinket that is merely pretense,” she says. “He is sending a friend because he believes me friendless, and I have no doubt she will offer to smuggle me from Winterfell to save me from the horrors found here. Whether marriage or my position is the more objectionable to him… no, no doubt he believes he is _rescuing_ me.”

“I struggle to believe anybody _could_ rescue you,” he replies. “Not without losing a hand at the very least.”

She pauses in her pacing and looks at him incredulously, so he lifts his right arm and shakes it in her general direction. 

“You’re insufferable,” she says, but the franticness is fading and that is enough. She shoves the letter in his direction. “You may as well read it, you are mentioned. _Frequently_.”

The letter is addressed to Lady Lannister, which is a title he has never associated with her because she is Brienne of Tarth and possibly Brienne of Winterfell but not _that_ , and the whole thing rather goes downhill from there. It is all florid words and promises of a happy reunion, and really it is almost enough to make Jaime pace the floor as well. 

“Well, you are far from friendless,” he says dismissively, “and having elicited your mule-headedness more than once, your removal from Winterfell seems equally improbable. Lady Adalys will simply have to bear the disappointment.”

“If I send her away, my father will likely conclude that I am being held against my will and persist.”

Stubbornness does seem to run in the family. But for all his sins, Jaime can be stubborn too, and he sees no reason to deny it now. 

“Then convince her you are not,” he says, and she looks at him with seemingly genuine confusion as he hands the letter back. “If you mean to fight for your position, then treat it as you would any battle. Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lady Commander of the Northern Stewardsguard, Most Stubborn Wench in the Seven Kingdoms—” she snorts a laugh at that “—there is no man or woman in this land who could best you if you chose to fight.”

She stares at the letter in her hand, and he thinks perhaps he has said too much, been too sincere, and so he retreats to flippancy.

“I, for one, would appreciate the entertainment. Better than a tourney.”

She folds the letter carefully.

“I will… consider it,” she says quietly, then seems to shrug off her distress, a trick that would convince many. “But you did not come to talk of this. Have you news of Fenton Waters?”

The news he had been so happy to relate pales now, but there is no need to show it.

“No drink?” he asks in mock offense. 

She looks exasperated by the question, but the sort of exasperation that is at least partially amusement and definitely not hurt, and he’s not quite sure when that happened and can’t quite bring himself to believe it will last, but he is greedy enough to take it. 

“I will brew tea,” she says, “if you will fetch food from the kitchens. I’m afraid I missed the evening meal again.”

The rational part of his mind tells him she is sending him away so she may compose herself in peace, but he bows overly elaborately and murmurs something about _as the wench commands_ and leaves for the kitchens with a speed that would be almost comical, and charms the young girl working at the stove with some story of wishing to surprise his lady wife that means she sneaks a couple of little honey cakes into the basket she places on his forearm. The entire errand is surprisingly quick, and Brienne is only just taking the kettle from the fire when he returns; she hears him and turns, narrowing her eyes, and he shrugs as if to say that it isn’t his fault that people are eager to help him, and the exasperation is still fond and not angry so he allows himself to smile before laying the food onto the table. 

She sprawls in one of the chairs and begins to eat, pushing a plate towards him when he does not follow suit, and then they discuss the finally completed repairs to Winterfell, and a complaint from the smallfolk about the behaviour of some recruits that is more a vent than a need for advice, and he tells her about the intercepted message from Fenton Waters—there was very little in it, in honesty, merely a report of events in Winterfell, the sort of spying that barely merited the term, and they have yet to uncover who he is spying _for_ —and while she doesn’t _laugh_ like he had hoped, she does smile and it is more than he expects under the circumstances. 

“And on the other point?”

“He has been accompanied morning to night,” Jaime says. “There is no need to dismiss him yet.”

She is not entirely happy with the answer, but neither is Jaime, and either way she will do her best to uphold Sansa Stark’s decisions so there’s no point in voicing his objections. Then the conversation turns to Pod, and it feels a little less like safe ground because this is personal, particularly when she mentions her intention to knight him soon, that she’s only refrained so far because her own knighthood feels too new to grant it upon another. Which is absurd, of course, if there’s ever been a knight more worthy of the title Jaime has yet to know of them, but it is an honest feeling shared between knights and he does not dismiss it. (If he can imagine another world where she confesses this in their shared bed as he kisses and teases her until the doubts dissipate, it is merely a twinge, a phantom pain.) 

Eventually the meal is done and the conversation lapses, and Jaime realises this is the longest and most easily they have been alone together since his ride North and he has no idea how to extract himself gracefully. There is a very good chance that whatever he intends to say will come out horrifically wrong, and then she speaks first and whatever half-formed nonsense on his tongue vanishes entirely. 

“The Lady Lannister business will have to be stopped,” she says, quietly but with assurance, as if through all their conversation she was really thinking of this instead. “It will make him suspicious, but…”

He doesn’t know whether she is speaking of annulment or the once-mentioned need to produce an heir for Tarth, and honestly he doesn’t care in the least. Let the Lannister name end, it is the only thing it is fit for now, a relegation to the annals of history. He certainly has no use for it, and Tyrion has made it clear he will wear it but never pass it further. 

“Let me take Tarth,” he says impulsively, only realising as the words leave his mouth that he _wants_ her to say yes, possibly more than he was wanted anything in his life. She looks at him doubtfully. “Not to claim, but…. You placed me beneath your cloak as much as I placed you beneath mine, and there is precedent.” He’s not sure there is, actually, but it isn’t going to stop him. “I have a brother who can carry the House name and you do not, let it be a grand gesture from a loving husband to take Tarth instead.”

“I cannot _lie_ to him,” she says, sounding almost wounded. “He is wrong in this, yes, but he is still my father.”

It’s not a lie, not really—perhaps it is more selfishness than loving gesture, but he would feel the same regardless. She is of Tarth, the blue of their waters in her eyes and the quiet stillness of the land from a distance carried in her solid dignity, and he could no more ask her to give it up than he could lose his left hand as well and still live. But she does not believe him, or perhaps she does and wishes she does not.

“Then it is a matter of practicality,” he says, pivoting neatly, and she cannot deny that.

“I…”

“Think on it,” Jaime says. “It is far from the most pressing of considerations.”

She looks at him and he recognises the expression on her face; she is weighing up some decision. 

“What is most pressing then, if we are to embark on this mad campaign?”

Jaime considers the question.

“Who to bring into confidence,” he finally says. “Too many know and there is—”

“Pod and both Stark girls,” Brienne says instantly. “They already know or suspect the truth, so we will not put them in an unfair position, and with them on our side we should have no need for others.”

He nods in agreement and then watches in quiet awe as she lays out her plan of attack—she is often taciturn and he loves that Brienne too, the one who sees no need to play games, but when she is like this… she is brilliant to watch, insightful and certain as she plans to the strengths of her allies and not the weakness of her enemy. (She knows the weaknesses, will use them if it is necessary, but honour compels her to honesty as well, and even after knowing her for years it is still staggering to watch because it _works_. Despite every message from his family and decades of experience, somehow this _works_ for her, and sometimes he just wants to ask her how, how can she be so staggeringly determined and lovely and honourable, but he’s pretty certain if he did she would look at him in confusion because it would never occur to her to be anything else.) 

It is almost an hour later when she calls an end to their planning, because she has a meeting with Lady Sansa even though it has been dark for hours, and there is a feasible plan of action in place, the rules of combat established. She refuses to lie, but they have teased out truths that can present a different reality than the one they are in and will speak to the others in the coming days. It is good work. 

She pauses at the door, and when she looks back she seems almost content in the firelight and he is so thankful that he had come back unexpectedly enough that he knew the truth, that she had not chosen to bear this alone. 

“Thank you, Ser Jaime,” she says, giving a small bow. “Sleep well.”

The door closes before he can reply, so he speaks to an empty room.

“And you, wench.”

***

The day Adalys and her husband are to arrive in Winterfell, Brienne is up at first light. Lady Sansa has insisted that Brienne greet the guest on her own name and not as Commander of the Stewardsguard, which means that she opts for her wedding doublet instead of her armour and attempts several less austere hairstyles before sweeping it back as she always does. She might need to play the role of wife, but too far an aberration from her routine will no doubt spark comments she’d rather not deal with.

When she leaves her chamber, she finds Jaime seated at the table; he rises to greet her and she realises he has already dressed for the day. He is handsomely turned out, garbed in dark grey and a freshly regrown beard and looking every bit a man of the North and no southern lion, but it is the sword at his waist that catches her attention.

“Widow’s Wail,” she says, perhaps unnecessarily.

He glances down and then shrugs.

“It was taken before the trial,” he says, “and brought north in secret. I didn’t know until last night. Lady Sansa has had it in her possession, and felt that the unity of matching swords outweighed my father’s rather ostentatious taste in hilts.”

She wonders, briefly, whether it was the blade he’d—but she cannot wonder and cannot ask, has done her best to know as little about the death of Cersei Lannister as possible. On this one point, she allows her cowardice to rule. 

It is odd, in its way; she had not noticed its absence, though it seems as much a part of him as Oathkeeper is part of her, and now that it has returned the lack of it screams at her.

“I am… very glad it has found its way home, Ser Jaime,” she says, sincerely. “Come, breakfast with me before our guest arrives.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter... did not go where I expected. Time (and you lovely readers) will tell if its eventual destination actual came through in the writing. ♥

Poor weather slows travel and reduces the number of observers lingering in the courtyard, and by the time Lady Adalys’s carriages arrive just before midday Brienne is thankful for it. Though there have been letters, frequently at first but dwindling in the last few years as both life and travels made it difficult, she has not seen Adalys since they were both ten-and-five and Adalys had departed Tarth with her new husband, and Brienne is not certain how easily she will recognise her old friend. She needn’t have worried—the woman who descends from the carriage has matured, a pale rose come to blossom, but there is the same elegance in her bearing, the same crown of plaited chestnut hair, the same mischievous glint in her dark eyes as she draws near.

“Lady Stark,” she says, and her voice is the smoothly honeyed tones Brienne had never managed to replicate despite hours of attempting. Admittedly, most of her attention had been on more knightly ambitions, but she had tried. Somewhat. “Thank you for receiving me on such short notice.”

Sansa is equally courteous, all grace and manners as they exchange pleasantries about the journey, and Brienne is struck by how similar her old friend and liege lady are—women of porcelain skin and steel spines and quiet ambition. Adalys’s husband joins them from the second carriage, after a moment—Harald is an aging man of nearly seventy and has never been in good health; there are twin boys, probably nearly grown by now, to take the inheritance and no more children. An arrangement that has suited both parties admirably, giving them what very well be one of the happiest noble marriages in the Stormlands. Brienne glances over the staff that has arrived with the party, recognising a tall woman amongst them from Adalys’s letters—Willa, a lady’s maid who carries a dagger in her skirts and a sword’s worth of wits—and smiles. That might be the other reason for continued happiness.

Adalys finishes her conversation with Sansa before Harald does, and moves to Brienne; still the picture of dignity, but Brienne knows all too well what troubles lie in the sweet curve of Adalys’s smile. People had always presumed Brienne was the troublesome one, headstrong and willing to fight, but she wouldn’t have done half the things she had if she wasn’t playing handsome knight to Adalys’s fair maiden. 

When Adalys stops in front of her, Brienne can see the hints of laughter lines around her eyes. 

“Lady Lannister,” she says with a curtsy, the lines crinkling. 

“It’s Ser Brienne,” Jaime practically growls from beside Brienne, which is not at all how they had planned for this correction, but Adalys hears it and looks at Brienne with a brilliant smile.

“Truly?”

“Ser Brienne of Tarth,” she confirms. “And this ill-mannered aurochs is my husband, Ser Jaime.”

“Yes,” Adalys says, turning towards Jaime with an evaluating look in her eyes. “I do doubt he remembers me, but we met… many years ago now, when Harald had some business in King’s Landing. My sons were pleased I had spoken with the greatest living swordsman. Ser Jaime Lannister.”

“That must have been many years ago, then,” he says graciously, the only hint he feels otherwise the briefest hesitation before he speaks. 

And Brienne hadn’t thought of Jaime’s offer (request) to leave Lannister behind, not since that first night, because no man has reason to use it here, but hearing the name on an unfamiliar tongue, the weight of every Lannister sin behind it… suddenly the near-desperation in his voice that night makes perfect, horrifying sense. 

“Tarth, actually,” says Brienne, feels Jaime beside her tense and then relax in surprise. “Ser Jaime of Tarth.”

Adalys looks _delighted_. It is precisely the sort of trouble she would have encouraged in their youth, though her verbal response is appropriately subdued. 

“That is unusual.”

“My husband knows how highly I hold my duties, including to the people of Tarth,” Brienne says, which was appallingly true, and then, “it was a simple choice,” which was very much was _not_. 

“And, I imagine, made much easier by the events of King’s Landing,” Adalys says quietly, and really there’d been so _many_ events in King’s Landing, for years now, and Adalys could be talking about any of them (executions and wildfire and Mad Queens and dragons and sieges and trials and rightful kings and a gift of Valyrian steel that still sits on her hip), but somehow Brienne knows, knows deep in her _bones_ , that she means none of them. “Have there been any attempts since you’ve come north?”

And Jaime says nothing, just a tiny shake of his head and _fuck._ Fuck this and fuck him and fuck Sansa and Tyrion for their delicate little words and fuck Adalys for knowing when Brienne did not and most of all fuck herself for never asking, for playing like some little girl who can say _you’re safe_ and make it so, for daring to presume that there could have been no real threat that a sharp sword in a steady hand could not deflect and even that was a distant possibility. (And if it was so distant, why had she ever agreed? Somehow pretty little assertions of duty aren’t half so convincing when she’s failed so miserably, and what is left but misplaced pride?)

She has spent years being implacable in these moments, head held high and face inscrutable and perhaps the facade is useless in front of people who know her best (Sansa, watching from the corner of her eye, and Adalys, who had known her since they were in cradles, and Pod, waiting patiently, and _damnit_ Jaime too, she can’t ignore it even if she wanted to), perhaps the facade is useless but it is the only armour she has against the sudden roiling in her gut and so she dons it. 

“It is good to see you again, Lady Adalys,” she says, swallowing her anger. “My squire Podrick will attend to your needs; I’m afraid with your delayed arrival I have immovable commitments to attend to now. There will be a feast, tomorrow, to celebrate your arrival, if I do not see you before then.”

It is almost the truth.

“Of course, Ser Brienne,” Adalys says, curtsying lightly. “No doubt you have many things to attend to. But I do hope to see you this evening as well. It has been a very long time.”

And Brienne knows this is where the ladies of court would agree or deflect delicately, find some way to weave a lace of lies and half-truths. But she has never been good at it, and curse Jaime Lannister ( _Tarth_ , taunts her own voice, and could she not have had five minutes of peace before regretting her haste?) for suggesting this ridiculous pretense, and then curse him again for convincing her to agree to it, and curse him a third time simply for being himself, it is no less than he deserves.

“I will do my best, Lady Adalys,” she says stiffly, “but I can make no promises.”

***

Jaime is not quite certain how to interpret the arrival of the guest, who strikes him as potentially dangerous (what noblewoman wasn’t, in one way or another?) and he doesn’t see Brienne for the rest of the day, except at a distance. It is not unusual, but he finds himself searching for her at every opportunity all the same, as if a glimpse of her light hair or the determined set of her shoulders will set him at ease. (That it probably _would_ is no longer a surprise, a reminder that whatever absurdity they still have to face at least they are on the same side of this particular battle.)

He _does_ see Lady Adalys again—Sansa has taken it upon herself to entertain the guest, and he’d resent the implication that he needs help in this quarter only he very definitely does, but they sup at the same time and he almost manages to not make a complete ass of himself. Really, he thinks bitterly, he ought to be better at this given the years with Cersei, but the truth is that here is someone who knew Brienne before and knows her little now and the combination is potent; his mouth gets ahead of his discretion several times, until Lady Sansa redirects the conversation while sending him a look that perfectly conveys ‘You really are overselling this’.

(She’s probably right, but the story about the cat at the dining table is genuinely funny and in some better world he would have heard it from Brienne herself and teased her mercilessly, but if this pale imitation is all he gets than he wants to bask in it all the same, like some lovestruck boy. It is nauseating even to him.) 

Lady Adalys has moved, with Sansa’s nudging, onto the topic of King’s Landing and the repairs there. Jaime feigns interest, his own observations months in the past, and hopes she will keep to that topic and not the threats against Jaime’s life. (He’s not entirely certain how she _knows_ about that, but it was far from the biggest threat in King’s Landing and it is hardly as if people in the south wanted him dead more than the Starks in the north did, but he certainly _feels_ safer here, amongst northerners who still hold some concept of honour and duty and common fucking sense, and he really doesn’t wish the discuss the whole thing with a perfect stranger over his evening meal). 

He excuses himself when the meal is done. He does not expect Brienne to return to their quarters—he knows that even if she is somehow miraculously free despite the late start to her day’s tasks and the flurry of ravens that he saw set forth that afternoon were not an ominous sign of trouble to come, she would (should) spend the evening with her old friend—but he still finds himself waiting for her. Eventually he places another log on the sitting room fire, to warm the room for whenever she returns, and heads to bed. There is always tomorrow. 

***

The chamber is still dark when Jaime is awakened by the sound of stomping and the heavy creak of a door; he rolls over to see a silhouette backlit by the sitting room fire, and does not have a chance to place it before her harsh voice barks through the air between them.

“Get up,” Brienne says, stepping further into the room to throw clothes onto his bed. “We have training.”

He blinks, twice, his mind still groggy from sleep. 

“Training?”

“Yes,” she says tersely. “You have Widow’s Wail back, you can damn well do something with it. Better than getting yourself killed. Up. Training yards in ten minutes. I was informed you brought no armour with you—I’m sure the armory will have some to spare until you can have some made, but leave it for today. Jerkins will do. I can’t imagine many assassins will wait for you to dress.”

And as suddenly as she’d arrived she was gone, and he’s not quite certain what had just happened, but she’d said training and his feet are already on the (fucking freezing) stone floor and his left hand is scrambling to remove his sleep clothes because the hour might be abysmal but at least it is something familiar and welcome and hasn’t he been itching for this for weeks now? (The training, not…. he’d first picked up a sword in sincerity on his sixth name-day, and since that day only illness or imprisonment have kept him from it, and even then he has played it in his mind—battles won and battles lost, what he needs to practice most—and he’s told himself it was duty to his house, to be the best, to practice so that he might be ready for the real thing, but really it is that in that quiet moment where he grasps the sword he is nobody but _Jaime_ , no politics and no duty and no sister demanding that he is her mirror and no father hating him for failing to be the obedient son and no little voice muttering _Burn them_ and _Kingslayer_ and _Oathbreaker_ and _There is honour in you, Ser Jaime, I have seen it_ , and without it he is rudderless. He has done so many wicked things for those voices, but never on the training grounds.) 

(Of course it is Brienne who has given it back to him, no ceremony, no pretext he must parse, just a command to _eat_ and _live_ and _do something_ , and he does.)

The palest streaks of light reach the training yards at the same time he does, and Brienne is already there, a veritable storm darkening her expression, her lips a thin line and her eyes narrowed, and he cannot read her but he knows at least how to fight with her, and he grabs the training sword and moves—

He’s on his ass before they’ve begun, and she looks at him with contempt.

“Again,” she demands.

“I wasn’t aware we’d begun,” he says dryly, brushing his knees as he stands. She uses the distraction to knock him down again.

“A knife in the dark won’t wait for you to _begin_ ,” she spits, but she lets him stand and square off before moving again. 

She attacks, recklessly aggressive with every strike and he’d insult her technique (it is terrible, truly, the sort that might keep wights from killing you but very little else) except he is too busy trying to keep _up_ with her. His arm is aching from the force of the hits he can barely fend off, and when she knocks him down there is no pleasure in the yield, just a demand to rise and keep fighting, both of them red-faced and breathless, little clouds of steam leaving their mouths as they pant and go again. She hasn’t slicked back her hair so it flies loose, and when she knocks him to the ground _again_ and looms over him he is struck by this absurd thought that this is what she looks like when they fuck, breathless and strong and wild, but also that she looks, somehow, like the Brienne he first met, young and desperate to prove herself; she offers him a hand to stand and he takes it, and in his distraction he misses the tense of her muscles as she pulls him in, landing a punch against his side—firm, hard enough to hurt but not harm.

“You’ve let your guard down,” she says, the blue of her eyes as stormy as her demeanor.

“You disarm me, sweetling,” he pants as he pulls away, aiming for cocky, and the moment of surprise is enough to move into a defensive position before she lunges again, grunting when he manages to not only block her strike but make one of his own. 

They continue, on somewhat more equal footing; she’s still unrelenting and vicious, but he is able to read her movements for it. She _knows_ better, he knows she does, but she’s too reckless to hide it, relying on her speed and strength instead. A particularly strong blow echoes through the yard with a crack and he realises she’s managed to break her sword. 

“I expected better of you,” he says as she grabs a replacement and spins to face him. “Tell me, have _you_ been practicing at all?”

He’s not _winning_ , but he goads her and he reads her and he has stopped losing quite so badly, his mind so focused on the movements of the fight that there simply isn’t time to question what is happening. Thrust, parry, strike, again and again until he’s exhausted and so is she and he’s landing some hits and falling less often and he’s thinking that maybe he’s not the _worst_ swordsman in Westeros. (He’s _never_ been the worst swordsman in Westeros, but there’s something about taking her on that makes him feel every failure keenly.)

Locked in battle, he does not mark the passage of time except in the burn of muscles, the thwack and thrust, the singing in his blood as he moves. At some point there is the sound of chatter from nearby and they both stop, realising that the light is much brighter and the people of Winterfell have begun their day; the wild anger in her face is gone in an instant, the only vestiges of it the flush in her cheeks and the slight shortness of her breath and the way she sweeps her hair from her face. 

“That will be enough for today,” she says, suddenly placid and cool. “I will see you at the same time tomorrow.”

There is a stitch in his side and his arm is shaking in exhaustion and mostly he’s just _confused_ , because he’s never seen her like this, not even after the Long Night, so utterly raw that it makes his heart ache, and so utterly determined to hide it. 

“Why?” he asks, leaning against his sword.

She has already turned away to replace her weapon to the rack, and there is unrepentant _grief_ in the slump of her shoulders as her hand lingers on the wood. 

“Do not ask me to let you die, Ser Jaime,” she says, so quietly he almost doesn’t hear her. “I made an oath.”

Oh.

He could make a thousand promises, a thousand assurances that he will not die, that he is far too stubborn to die and there was never any real danger in it anyway, but the words stick in his throat. They both know all too well that some promises cannot be kept simply by wishing them so. 

“Tomorrow then,” he says instead. “I’ll be here.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the chapter count creeping up every time I post? Yep. This chapter alone is half of what it was supposed to be. Events of what should have been chapter two are now going to occur in chapter eight, presuming it doesn't get even longer. I've stopped presuming. Do I clearly have some opinions about Brienne and female friendships that kind of escaped me in this chapter? Also yep. Could I have called this chapter "The Many-Faceted Strengths of Women"? Honestly, the entire fic is kind of my treatise on the topic. Does anybody care? Probably not. 😂😂😂

Brienne is exhausted, and not just from the training. She slowly makes her way to Adalys’s quarters, meaning to invite her to break fast together, but when her friend opens the door she takes one glance at Brienne and looks mad enough to spit.

“I will kill him,” she hisses as she gestures Brienne into the room.

And Brienne knows she’s not being literal, Adalys has always been quick to the defense and who knows what stories she’s heard over the years, but it’s too close to the images that have hovered in her mind’s eye these last hours: Jaime dead, by blade or poison or—she can’t bear to think of it, and she flinches.

“Oh, seven hells,” Adalys says softly. “I didn’t mean…. Go lie down, dear Brienne. You look barely upright.”

“I have—”

_Commitments_ , she means to say, but Adalys looks at her firmly. 

“You might be stubborn, but I’m just as much from Tarth as you are, and you know I’m right besides.”

And the thing is, Brienne does know, and it is so easy to fall into the familiar, and her feet propel her towards the bed. 

“Just a few minutes,” she mutters, sprawling atop of the furs that cover the bed.

Some part of her is aware of the sound of the door, some indeterminate time where she thinks she must doze, then the feel of a hand running through her hair. She rolls to her side and sees Adalys watching her.

“I’ve spoken with Sansa,” she says, her hand still playing with Brienne’s hair. “She says she’ll see you at mid-day.”

Brienne closes her eyes, exhausted, trying to summon the energy to object. But Adalys’ touch is so gentle and tears come to her eyes instead as she realises that this, _this_ , is what she misses most of what she and Jaime had once been. She enjoyed it all—the sparring and the challenges and the teasing and the passion, _all_ of it, that knowing so intimately another person… she wouldn’t change any of it. But the simple act of being touched with kindness… it had been years since anyone had with any consistency (she is _loved_ , she knows, but she is not touched) and she had not noticed its absence, not until it had been taken once more, and to have it now makes her chest ache. She moves closer to her old friend, seeking comfort the way she had when they were children, her head finding a soft lap; Adalys presses a kiss against her forehead and Brienne allows herself to simply exist in the moment.

“Do you wish to explain?”

“No,” Brienne murmurs, slightly petulant. “It is nothing, Adalys. Too much to do, too few hours.”

“Then entertain me with a story of your adventures, Ser Brienne.”

It is another familiar game, but now the stories are real and not nearly so pretty as the ones they had once played. Far more blood and shit, for starters.

“There was once a maiden,” Brienne says, “who believed herself to be a true knight…”

And she drones on, exhaustion making her words languid, explaining how the maiden had believed that right and wrong were simple and universal truths. How very wrong she had been. She leaves out the unpleasant bits—the rotting stench of corruption in an amputated limb, the searing pain of a bear’s claws, the contradiction of oaths, the failures that came before the successes. Those were truths for a knight, not a maiden fair. But she speaks at length, couched in the language of stories, and when she reaches the night before the battle she trails off.

“And then the errant knight kissed the maiden fair, and pledged his troth?” Adalys guesses, knowing how these stories go.

“He knighted me,” Brienne replies, which is definitely _not_ how these stories are supposed to go, and she knows that’s what makes it true. 

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

She could say yes. It would make an excellent story for her father, and Adalys would believe it. But it would do injustice to one of the best moments of her life (it would be the best, undoubtedly, but she thinks of Oathkeeper and Catelyn Stark and _you once danced with Renly Baratheon_ and so many more, and Jaime a golden thread woven throughout so many of them), and it would do injustice to the man who had understood her enough to make it possible. Who guards her right to it with utter certainty.

“It wasn’t like that,” she says. “Neither of us thought we would live through the night.”

In that circle, the warmth of the fire and camaraderie warding off the winter chill, the future had seemed impossibly far away. But the gift he had given her, golden and solemn… that had been real and true and good, and gloriously, irrevocably _hers_.

“But you both lived.” 

“Neither glory not tragedy,” Brienne says. “Which doesn’t make a particularly good song.” 

“Nonsense,” her friend replies, and Brienne realises she is _still_ playing with Brienne’s hair, fingers tender. “You always enjoyed the romances best.”

And she _had_ , she still does really. But the romances never talked about conflicting loyalties and pain and how easy love could be to lose, and she hates them a little too.

“When I asked him, after....” she tries not to remember how they’d been entwined together when she’d asked, how her body had hummed as his hand had skimmed across her skin so tenderly. But she’s never told anyone what he’d said that night, and suddenly she needs someone to know, to _understand_ the man Jaime is. And if her voice cracks, just a little, it is a small price to pay. “When I asked him, he said that a one-handed man was very poor protection on the battlefield, but he had hoped the Warrior would look kindly on his most deserving knight.”

“And he did.”

“No,” Brienne asserts. “No, that was Jaime too. I don’t think either of us would have survived that night if we hadn’t… it was very easy, to fight beside him. To defend Winterfell. And we lived.”

She hopes Adalys does not push further, because she is exhausted and does not want to think of what came after that, the love (it was love, it had always been love) and the loss and how she has everything she had once wanted—acknowledgment of her skills, the respect of a good leader, friendships, and marriage to a good man—but it is all just a little wrong. Thankfully, Adalys merely kisses her forehead once more. 

“Worthy of a song, Ser Brienne,” she says. “Now sleep awhile.”

***

Jaime has managed to return to his chamber to change, the clothes he had hastily donned soaked with sweat after their sparring, and is headed towards the hall for food when Arya Stark taps him on the shoulder (and, really, her ability to sneak up on him is _unnerving_ , especially when she shrugs at his incredulous look and says that if she wanted to hurt him she would have done it ages ago, and the weirdest part is that he thinks it is almost an overture of friendship. No, scratch that, the weirdest part is that he actually hopes it is, because despite all sense of self-preservation he actually likes the girl.)

“Sansa wants to see you,” she says, then narrows her eyes. “You haven’t done anything to Brienne, have you?”

And, well, he’s not entirely sure how to answer, because _no_ he hasn’t done anything to Brienne, except that’s clearly not true when she’s just spent an hour kicking his ass and then looking like he’d kicked her instead, and maybe the act of marrying her was enough of a sin. (And, alright, his pride is smarting a _little_ that apparently she wed him without assessing the danger first, simply because she felt _obligated_ , simply because it was the right thing to do. It feels like pity, and he will not be in debt to the woman just because she’s too blindingly noble to let him face the consequences of his own damn actions.)

“Not recently,” he says to Arya with an insolence he doesn’t particularly feel.

She rolls her eyes in response and he follows her through the castle, soon reaching the room where Sansa seems to spend most of her time. Lady Adalys is leaving just as they arrive and gives Jaime an assessing look, and he’s suddenly hit by the thought that he is _surrounded_ by terrifying women, and yet he would trust any of them to do the right thing. (Well, perhaps not Lady Adalys, he does not know her, but she is Brienne’s friend and Brienne is not the sort to befriend the undeserving. Him aside, but that was a matter of circumstance.)

Sansa is seated behind a large desk when he enters. 

“Ser Jaime,” she says, rising regally to greet him. 

“Lady Stark,” he replies, bowing; his hand moves to control the sword he is not wearing, and he feels oddly naked without it—not as a defense, but because he and his sword are both at her command and her mercy, and just himself seems a paltry offering. 

“Please, take a seat,” she says, and he does. She looks at him, not _warmly_ but not coolly either. “I require your assistance.”

“And I am happy to offer it,” he says.

She arches an eyebrow at that, but pushes on.

“You are aware of the… problems with Fenton Waters?”

The shitty little upstart spy with no manners and a lecherous streak. 

“I am.”

“Podrick has been in to inform me that his behaviour yesterday evening was unacceptable.”

“Surely Ser Brienne—”

“Would wish to dismiss him immediately, and I do understand the impulse. But we still do not know who he writes to in King’s Landing, presuming that the message is not sent on from there. I am asking you to speak with him more… informally.”

“You wish me to use my reputation to intimidate the man, you mean,” Jaime says. And the thing is, he _will_ , because he has no patience for men like Fenton Waters, and also he’s not completely forgiven him for that nonsense before the wedding, but the irony of coming North to avoid those who would use him only to be asked is… not unexpected, really. At least it is in the service of good.

“I wish for you to use your _authority_ , Ser Jaime,” she says. “And while you are flaying him with your tongue, Arya will search his quarters for any further information. If he is sufficiently contrite, we can continue as we have been. If not, at least we have done our best.”

Jaime recognises a dismissal when he hears one, and stands.

“As my Lady Stark commands.”

She raises a hand in acknowledgment, her attention already moving to papers in front of her. Jaime bows and exits the room, Arya Stark padding behind him.

“You know,” she says, once the door is closed and they are in the corridor, “I think Sansa might actually _trust_ you.”

Well, wasn’t that a terrifying thought. 

***

When Brienne wakes, she opens her eyes to see Adalys in a chair nearby, neatly embroidering something. 

“I had a meal brought here,” Adalys says, nodding towards a small tray by the bed. “You looked as if you needed the sleep.”

Brienne sits up and rubs her eyes, casting her mind back to—a small lump forms in the pit of her stomach, hot and cold in equal measure, as she remembers that morning, the day before, the moons that have passed (three? four? she has hardly kept track) since a raven had arrived from King’s Landing with news that changed… everything, and nothing. 

“It’s all things that will be fine cold,” Adalys continues, sensing her change in demeanour and misattributing it.

“No,” Brienne says. “The food is… thoughtful. It’s just—”

“That there is so very much to do, and you must do it all,” Adalys supplies. “Your Lady Sansa did say you’d say that. She also suggested that I allow you to remain here, as she was concerned your matrimonial commitments would prove a distraction.”

It takes Brienne a moment, and then she blushes furiously. Lady Sansa would not say such things, not to a stranger, but of course she would now because they must deploy every trick at their disposal if this scheme is to work, and it must work because the price of failure was more than she was willing to pay, more than she had accounted for. Adalys laughs.

“He’s not to my taste, I’ll grant you, but he is handsome enough. Moreso than the first time I met him, I think. Tell me, is he attentive?”

Brienne’s own laugh barks across the room, and a thousand truths claw at her throat in a bid to escape—he’s so attentive, so tender in all the ways she desires, unafraid to match her strength; he is a man of dented honour who loved her, once, but duty had come first; how can she answer if they have never lain together as husband and wife?—but she cannot… she cannot spin the truth into something palatable, and so she blushes and looks away. 

“He is very dutiful,” she says. “And kind.” 

“That is good then,” Adalys says mildly, eyes focused on her stitches. “The lack of a hand was concerning.”

Startled, Brienne laughs again, remembering all too well his growled frustration one particular night, until she’d slipped her own hand between them and he’d roared like the oft-mentioned lion as he came, how when they were done he’d moved close and nuzzled her neck, declaring the sight one of the best things he’d ever seen (but he was still doing it next time, they’d just have to start from a different position). The pain comes a moment later, a sharp reminder that it’s not— she can’t—

“Very dutiful,” she repeats, and busies herself with the meal beside her.

The silence that fills the room for the next few minutes is not uncomfortable, though Brienne would have appreciated some discussion to quiet the voice in her head, the one calling her a liar even as if reminds her how very much she needs to lie, the one that persists in reminding her of the flavour of Jaime’s kisses and all the reasons she cannot (will not) taste them again, the one saying _you never asked_ and _you have already failed_ and _his blood is on your hands_.

Life had been much simpler with half of the seven kingdoms between them, that was for certain. 

(It had also, she would admit only in the deepest corners of her heart, been… lonely, in its own familiar way. She was commander or swornsword, and a certain distance was required even in friendships. As Jaime Lannister seemed pathologically incapable of following rules and she had no interest in bending to him, there was a certain sort of perverse balance in their interactions, even when they were strained. It’s why it had been so easy to fall into the habit of speaking to him nightly, however much she justified it.)

When the meal is done, Brienne rises from the bed, feeling… relaxed, she supposes. Rested, and centred. And she might regret it later, when she is trying to do a thousand things at once, but for the moment at least she is content.

“You have time before you must leave,” Adalys says, setting aside her embroidery and moving towards a trunk. “I should give you your gift.”

Brienne had completely forgotten the mention of her father’s gift—she loves her father, knows that he will mean well, but he has always seen her with a father’s pride, and a father’s protectiveness. It will be some delicate jewelry to make her beautiful, or some object passed from generation to generation to remind her of her duty as heir to the Evenstar. The best she can hope for is a dagger to protect herself from what he suspects is a lecherous husband.

It is none of those things, or perhaps all of them. 

Adalys has wrapped it in a scrap of silk, but Brienne recognises the shape and heft of it before she even unwraps it. It is a cloak clasp, silver and blue-veined marble, shaped in a star. A wedding gift from her father to her mother. Brienne closes her eyes, the memories overwhelming—her small hands tracing the shape as her mother told her stories of brave princesses; the press of metal against her cheek as her mother carried her home after a long day running wild along the beaches; the soft glow of it in the sunlight of the solarium the last time she’d seen her mother, wrapped in the cloak even though it was the height of summer, her stomach swollen with the babe that taken her life that same evening. She’d been adamant that day, her voice warm and soft as she told Brienne how important it was to love, that honour and duty were not a mantle to be worn only when convenient, that one must always be able to look oneself in the eye and say you had done your best regardless of what others believed, and that more than anything she was loved, so very _loved_. Words that had been her first shield against the unkindnesses of the world, imperfect though they were. It had taken Brienne years to realise her mother had known what was coming, was facing it with a sort of courage Brienne had never possessed—Brienne would have fought and raged, and left a child behind with memories of anger and not love. 

“Brienne?” 

She realises, quite suddenly, that tears are rolling down her cheeks and Adalys is watching her in concern. 

“It’s Mother’s. Father could never bear to part with it,” she explains. “I asked, when I left Tarth, and he refused. Rightfully, I suspect, because I’ve no doubt it would have been lost or stolen or bartered for food or shelter in a dire moment. I don’t understand why he has sent it now. Is he unwell?”

Adalys gives a soft smile that feels a little too much like sympathy and Brienne recoils internally, her hand tightening over the clasp even as she wishes to push it away. 

“From what I can tell, Selwyn Tarth is the same meddling, well-meaning goat’s arse he’s always been,” Adalys says. “But he loves you. He is _proud_ of you. And the Commander of the Northern Stewardsguard is hardly likely to need to barter away a cloak clasp.” She steps closer and wipes the tears from Brienne’s cheek, and then leans up to give her a hug. “And he wants you to remember that you will always have Tarth.”

And there it was. The first hints of an overture. Brienne holds her friend tightly for just a moment, then steps back, an ache in her chest.

“I will,” she says. “But Winterfell is my duty, and my husband is my home. He knows I will not abandon either.” 

Adalys nods, a little sadly.

“I would expect no less.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My most intense apologies--I had meant to have this up Monday and it's now Friday, and really that's all you need to know about how this week has gone. Fingers crossed the next update is faster. Thank you all for your patience ♥

Jaime returns to his quarters to grab Widow’s Wail and then finds Pod and Fenton Waters in the dining hall, which means he at least manages to snag a heel of bread he drizzles with honey before gesturing to them both. Vigorous exercise followed by a tangle with the Lady of Winterfell, no matter how relatively straightforward, has left him hungry. He doesn’t quite have a plan, but he’d parted with Arya and promised her at least an hour, so he’ll have to come up with something.

“Up,” he orders. “We’re needed by the north gate.”

“We’re eating,” Waters replies, voice insolent.

Jaime grabs the half-empty bowl and passes it to a servant headed back towards the kitchens.

“And now you’re done. Move.”

“I don’t take orders from you, Kingslayer.”

The old insult makes him grin, and he’s clearly spent too long in the north because it feels wolfish even to him.

“You do now,” he says. “This comes directly from Lady Stark, and she’s not feeling particularly merciful this morning.”

Pod stands, giving Jaime a tiny glance before speaking.

“Come on, Fenton,” he says. “I’ve heard the Lady Commander wants another inventory of the armory completed today, the North Gate cannot be worse.”

Good lad.

The three men leave the great hall and head towards the North Gate; Pod matches strides with Jaime, allowing Waters to move ahead, and sighs.

“Last night, he’d had too much to drink and cornered Annie from the kitchens. Didn’t touch her before I stepped in, but the girl was skittish as a rabbit this morning.” He pauses, as if wondering how to say what comes next. “I don’t like him. And not just for the way he speaks of Ser Brienne. He’s...” _Arrogant. Snivelling. Petty. Careless. Cruel._ “I don’t like him.”

“No,” Jaime agrees. “Ser Brienne is fortunate to have you, Podrick.”

The young man looks surprised, but smiles.

“I think I’m the fortunate one,” he says. “She’s taught me what it is to be a true knight. If spending time with Fenton is the price to pay for that, I would gladly pay it a hundred times over.”

Jaime smiles back, a strange sort of pity in his gut. Handling Waters with such delicacy is precisely the sort of thing Brienne considers a dereliction of her knightly duties, no matter how necessary, and he is sorry to involve Pod. His own fall into mud had happened long ago, and he doesn’t wish for the boy to follow him down.

“After this morning, you may need to keep him even closer,” Jaime says. “If you object, I need you to speak now.”

“What will you do?”

Jaime grimaces. “I’m not certain, but he won’t be eager to spend time with me when I’m through.”

“Ser Brienne wishes me to?”

“On this matter, Ser Brienne would wish you to trust your own judgement,” Jaime says. “This is not a command.”

“And what would you do, Ser?”

“I hope you are asking so you know what not to choose,” he says wryly.

“No, Ser,” Pod replies earnestly, and for all he is grown, Jaime can see the boy beneath it. “It’s just… sometimes being as good as Ser Brienne seems impossible, but you—”

Jaime stifles a snort, and Pod looks horrified.

“I just meant, Ser, that you are the second best knight in all of Westeros, and if I can be as good as you, I will have done Ser Brienne proud.”

“You are already a far better man than I, Podrick,” Jaime says sincerely, resting his hand on Pod’s shoulder. “The rest will come.”

Pod smiles, and thinks for a moment.

“I’ll do it, Ser,” he says.

Jaime nods, trying to hide both his gratitude and his disappointment as Pod moves to catch up with Waters. It isn’t that he thinks Pod has made the wrong decision—he would have done the same even when filled with youthful optimism and a failure to understand the weight of what was threatened—but because he knows it is only one of a thousand choices that will slowly erode that enthusiasm.

It was, he has come to realise, a hell of a thing to ask the young, to be a knight. Not that he’s quite sure how to be anything else, at the core of it. Sometimes despite his own best efforts.

By some mercy, the men at the North Gate are men Jaime knows—they’d fought under Brienne during the Long Night, and they had survived. They greet him easily and accept his explanation that they are to be relieved early, undoubtedly helped by the fact it is still bitterly cold despite the signs of spring, and Jaime sets the three of them up to watch the gate. He has Pod and Waters run training exercises, assessing them with his own critical eye—Pod for weaknesses still to train out, Fenton Waters for weaknesses that he might need to levy in a fight—until they are both tired. Then he invites them inside for some wine, and when they are comfortably drinking he leans forward to look Waters in the eye and smiles.

“Do you know what we do with a woman who doesn’t come to our beds willingly?” The words are warm at first brush, a friendly exchange between men who knew the fickleness of women, jovial. Waters goes to reply, but Jaime continues, “It is easy enough to force them—frighten them into compliance, or corner them. Take what you desire.” Waters almost looks eager, and it churns Jaime’s stomach. “But you are in the home of Lady Stark, under the command of Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lady Commander of the Northern Stewardsguard. Two of the fiercest warriors in Westeros, in their respective ways. When a woman does not wish to come to our bed,” his voice turns to ice and his hand finds the pommel of his sword, “ _we leave them fucking be_.”

Waters flinches—Jaime is good at intimidation—but rallies.

“And what are a couple of northern bitches going to do about it?”

He’s not certain whether the man is truly stupid or just trying to provoke a response, but Jaime smiles.

“Oh, I imagine they will make inquiries, bring you to trial. They are not cruel,” he says, then pauses. “I, however, would just as happily gut you and sort it out later. If you so much as think about bothering another woman in Winterfell, you had better hope that they find out before I do.”

“And why should I be frightened, Kingslayer? You’re hardly the golden lion of Lannister now,” Waters spits, and it’s… it’s _odd_ , is what it is. Nobody in the north had called him Kingslayer in many moons. The Northmen may or may not like him, may or may not _trust_ him, but Kingslayer is the least of his sins in their eyes. Before he can consider further, Waters continues, “Course, an ugly bitch like the commander must be grateful for any cock she can get. Unless she gives you hers?”

“We’re done here,” Jaime says calmly. “You can stay on duty until midday, then resume your normal duties.”

Jaime is almost to the door when Waters speaks again.

“It’s clear she earned her knighthood on her knees,” he sneers. “Did she earn her command the same way? Licking Sansa Stark’s pretty little cunt, because she sure as shit hasn’t earned it—”

The back of Jaime’s hand makes a satisfying sound as it connects.

***

It is twilight when Brienne makes her way to her quarters, her afternoon taken up by an endless stream of demands on her time. It is still, even after all these months, strange to realise that she had been raised for duty and leadership and dreamt of being a knight instead, and here she has found both. She is _good_ at both, finds the meaning and satisfaction she’d once sought. And it is imperfect, but they are forging a new world and it will be better than what came before. That is enough.

There is a fire in the grate—for all his mockery that first night, Jaime is far more studious about keeping the fire roaring than she is—and a plate of honey cakes on the table. Which is enough to make her immediately suspicious, and when Jaime prowls out of his bedchambers half-dressed and looking smug…

“What the fuck did you do?”

And he _startles_ and looks down and then back up and folds into himself, and she’s struck by the realisation that he hadn’t been intending some sort of game. He recovers in an instant, but she hadn’t meant to wound him and it hurts that she has, and it hurts that she cares. It’s too… complicated. All of it.

“Forgive me, Ser Jaime,” she says, “it has been a long day and my temper is short.”

He shrugs nonchalantly, picking up one of the honey cakes and taking a bite.

“I’m afraid I will make it a little longer,” he says, sprawling into one of the chairs and motioning her towards the other. “Lady Sansa spoke with me this morning.”

Brienne feels a flash of guilt at that—her morning with Adalys had left Lady Sansa without her—and clearly it shows on her face, because Jaime gives her a firm look.

“Don’t, wench. You cannot build an entire realm single-handedly, a truth Lady Sansa is far better at accepting than you are. And in this situation, you could not have done what needed to be done and I was already involved.”

“Fenton Waters?”

“Indeed,” he says archly. “Lady Sansa had been informed of an incident with a servant last night—Podrick intervened, but she felt a reminder of Winterfell’s rules would not go amiss. Informally, you understand.”

“How informally?”

“I pulled him aside and reminded him that as the Steward and the Lady Commander were both women, it might be wise to reconsider his more lecherous inclinations, one man to another,” he says simply, and there is clearly something he is _not_ saying, so Brienne stays silent until he admits, “And then I hit him.”

She snorts without meaning to, the urge to backhand the little weasel one she’d had herself on more than one occasion. Jaime looks endearingly petulant about it, in that way that’s just… _Jaime_ , without pretext or defenses.

“It wasn’t even my good hand,” he says. “At least that fucking gold monstrosity was useful for something.”

She hasn’t seen the golden hand since he’d come north, and it makes her think of Cersei and King’s Landing and—she doesn’t want to know, can’t bear to ask.

“And the honey cakes?” she wonders, selecting one and raising it to her mouth.

“Ahh, yes,” Jaime says. “When I was through with him, I went to the kitchens. I want it spread through Winterfell that any woman who is subjected to that man’s attentions—or any unwanted attentions, but I will take what victories I can get—knows to speak, to you or to me. Begging honey cakes for my dear wife made me far less threatening a figure.”

The cake lay heavy on her tongue, and she swallows.

“That was very kind, Ser Jaime,” she says, because it is. He could have commanded, and thought of their comfort instead.

“It is not kindness, it is expediency,” he replies.

She wonders if he believes it, or is simply repeating lies he had told a hundred times before.

“I won’t quarrel with you. Perhaps it is both.” They are silent for a moment, then she sighs. “If he was so lewd, Lady Sansa—”

“Lady Sansa believes that an uncontained Waters presents far more of a threat to the safety of Winterfell than it does to some servant girls. I disagree, as it happens, but it is not my choice to make.”

She feels guilty for the mutinous murmur in her heart that agrees with him, but it has nothing on her loyalty to Sansa Stark.

“As you failed to find men making attempts on your life a threat, Ser Jaime, I feel perhaps we ought to defer to Lady Sansa on this matter.”

One side of his mouth quirks in a smile.

“That is… I feel that we ought to discuss that, as a matter of fact. I did presume you knew.”

And the guilt that she had not asked, dormant in the face of her long day, twists around her guts once more.

“Lady Sansa said she believed you to be in danger," she says, and her voice is quiet but not weak or uncertain. "That men were… happy to use you for their own means.”

“They were,” he agrees. “And regardless of what rumours reached your friend, they were by far the bigger danger in King’s Landing. The attempts on my life were either the worst assassins in the history of Westeros, which would just be insulting, or silly men attempting to frighten me into compliance, and neither seems particularly likely while I’m a guest in Winterfell.”

She nods, the twisting guilt growing lax even as her mind catches on his words.

“Just so we’re clear—when you say men, do you mean as in more than one at a time, or more than once?” She reads the answer in his face and smothers the urge to strangle him. “It was both, wasn’t it?”

“It was.”

She can feel the anger clawing at the edges of her mind, but she will not allow it to rule. She trusts his judgement on this, she must. 

“Do you swear that there is no threat to you in Winterfell?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I _can_ swear that I would never have come if I believed there to be, or if I would bring danger with me. I can swear that I have seen no indication in my time here. And I can swear that I will train daily, even at that gods-forsaken hour, if it would ease your mind.”

There is an earnestness to his voice that slides through her defenses like a dagger between the ribs, and she believes him.

“Very well,” she says, more tersely than she really feels.

“Marvelous, wench,” he replies, a smile stretching his lips that echoes in her heart. “No doubt the training will do you good as well. Your footwork this morning was abysmal.”

And they aren’t what they once were, they cannot be. She knows that. It is too difficult, too complicated, too painful. She will not, can not, pretend otherwise. But perhaps, in time, they will be true friends.

( _It is temporary_ , whispers the voice in her head, _you would do well to remember that. Negate the threat, annul the marriage_.)

(A still quieter voices whispers, _If you are so determined, why did you choose ignorance?_ and she does not hear it except for as a flaring pain in the now-familiar ache in her chest.)

 

***

Jaime escorts her to the feast—his half-dressed state had not been an attempt to unnerve her but her interrupting him in the midst of undressing, and she feels guilty for presuming otherwise—overly gallant and teasing, the very best parts of the man she knew.

“It is a miracle I’m upright, after this morning,” he whispers as they walk towards the hall. “I thought I might have to hide in my chambers until either my bruises or my dignity healed.”

She opens her mouth to tease him back, but before she can summon a witty rejoinder— _the bruises might be faster_ , perhaps, or _you can repay me in kind tomorrow, if you’re quick enough_ —a darkness crosses his features and he is as remote as he ever has been.

“Apologies, Ser Brienne,” he says stiffly. “That was unkind to you. You would never— I can excuse myself this evening.”

The transformation is so quick and complete that she can feel herself stepping closer in comfort, some inexplicable cord between them drawing her closer, though she does not understand why.

“No,” she replies. “Your absence would be… noticed.”

He inclines his head.

“Of course,” he says. “I have the impression that Lady Adalys misses little.”

 _Not her_ , she wants to say, but bites her lip instead.

“She is very observant,” she agrees.

They do not speak for the rest of their journey, and soon arrive at the hall.

The supplies of Winterfell do not allow for the luscious feasts of King’s Landing, not now, but the food is hearty and the company is boisterous, and Brienne finds that she laughs and converses as easily as she can. There is still the voice in the back of her head saying to watch for threats, to play the games, to know where Sansa is, where Arya is, where Jaime and Pod and Fenton Bloody Waters (nursing a rather satisfying split lip) are. There is still the voice of her old septa in the back of her head saying not to draw attention, not to laugh too loud or ruin people’s enjoyment with her uncouth ways. But the voices are faint reminders, not commands to be followed.

And then a familiar song begins and Adalys lights up, pushing away from the table to grab Brienne’s hand.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

“No,” Brienne repeats, but she’s laughing and standing too, setting aside her sword, because she might not be inclined to dancing but what Adalys wants barely qualifies as _dancing_ , not the dancing of great halls and mockery. It is a wild flinging, a dance of the smallfolk that had been—for all of three moons—greatly in favour in the Stormlands when they’d been girls. They’d danced it at every opportunity, long after it had fallen from favour, and the steps are as familiar to her as the first training exercises with a sword and just as liberating.

So she dances, through one song and into the next and into the next, until she is red-faced and breathless and it feels as if half of Winterfell is dancing as well. Adalys has even lured Sansa into the game, and the Steward of the North smiles and takes to the steps as she suddenly seems her age, and this moment alone almost makes the complications worth it. They are forging a new world, and they ought to _live_ in it too.

And then, on one particularly wild spin, Brienne sees Jaime is still seated and _watching_ her; there is a softness in his eyes that is achingly familiar, and _gods_ she would rather have his derision than the (longing, love) look that had belonged on his face once. Before. For a moment she cannot breathe, but she cannot linger either and so she keeps dancing, her eyes kept studiously turned away.

Eventually exertion becomes exhaustion, and Brienne pleads an early morning and makes her way to the table to retrieve Oathkeeper. Jaime is still there, still watching, and as unfair as it is, she braces herself for an insult she knows won’t come. It would be easier if it did; she expects (hopes, perversely) for arrogance, the last vestiges of Lannister cruelty reminding her that whatever they may be it is not _that_ , but he just seems _awed_ and somehow that is worse.

“I’ve never seen you dance,” he says.

“I don’t make a habit of it,” she replies stiffly, which is mostly true. A handful of dances in recent months hardly qualifies.

“Not without a sword, at least.”

And then he smiles at her, and she is just… she’s _tired_. She knows that she will rise again come morning and carry on. She knows that he is trying to be kind, but in this moment kindness feels as piercing as any sword. She knows that the day has been long and unusually demanding. She knows that if he smiles again, if he looks at her with that open adoration, her defenses will crumble. She will allow herself to believe in the possibilities.

She is not strong enough to survive it a second time.

“Sleep well, Ser Jaime,” she says, resolutely not looking at him as she fastens Oathkeeper at her waist. “We have training in the morning.”


	8. Chapter 8

They spar every morning. She is still ruthless, but the frantic edge is gone and all there is left is the familiar exhilaration of meeting one’s equal. (Well, equal was perhaps overestimating his skills and underestimating hers, but in a war-depleted Winterfell it is as close as either will get, and at least once a day he manages to surprise her with his speed or a feint or the strength of his strike, and the fact she is _pleased_ when he does makes him work all the harder for it.) When they are done, they part—on a few occasions she joins him to break fast, but more often she has commitments with Lady Sansa or he has promised his assistance elsewhere, and they weave in and out of each other’s path throughout the day, frequently some days and only a brief glimpse across a courtyard on others. Their evening discussions continue, never long and always on matters of practicalities, but not uncomfortable. 

It is, Jaime acknowledges with no shortage of irony, almost exactly the sort of marriage his father would have wanted for him. (His father would have snidely observed that they ought to spend less time sparring and more time producing a suitable heir, but honestly that’s far down the list of reasons he wishes he could tell Tywin Lannister to go fuck himself, so he doesn’t think about it. Much.) It is also the sort of marriage he had dreaded, in the few moments he was forced to contemplate such a thing, but with Brienne it is… it is _nice_ , somehow. And nice is so far from what he wants with her—he wants her anger and her sadness and the way her laughter burst forth in a manner reminiscent of a braying donkey (the mere memory of it is, Seven help him, liable to render him at least half-hard because it only comes when she is truly, _blindingly_ happy) and the bite of her blunt fingernails against his back—it is so far from what he wants and so much more than he deserves, and if nice is what he gets than he will take it gladly even if he can’t quite forget everything else.

And then one afternoon, two moons after they wed and a little over a fortnight since Lady Adalys had arrived in Winterfell, Jaime is sitting in their shared rooms when Brienne enters; he stands to greet her, the letter he was composing forgotten, and only notices the ashen cast of her pale skin and the sheen of sweat on her brow when she moves past him and into her private chambers, the door shutting firmly behind her. 

A maester arrives a few minutes later to join her, and Jaime hovers in the outer sitting room, certain he is unwelcome but less certain where to go. 

***

The entire thing was so bloody fucking _stupid_ , Brienne can hardly bear it. She’s been injured more times than she can count, has nursed more bruises and gashes and broken bones by the time she was ten than most people did in an entire lifetime. Which is why she knows that one _bloody fucking stupid_ mistake has dislocated her shoulder, and it hurts like an absolute _bitch_. And of course Jaime would be in their quarters in the middle of the fucking day, and he’ll be appropriately concerned and sympathetic and probably filled with appallingly good advice about resting the injury lest she aggravate it and cause permanent damage, (she flexes her fingers instinctively at the thought, and it hurts but there is no numbness or lack of response, so it is not the _worst_ it could be), and he’ll be bloody _nice_ about it because he had undoubtedly had his own litany of temporary injuries. And one rather obvious permanent one, the memory of which is almost, _almost_ enough to make her stop feeling sorry for herself, but then she tries to roll her shoulder and it fucking _hurts_ , and she’s been injured much worse than this but always when the rush had dulled the pain and the fight had been worth it, not some gods-forsaken _training_ injury where the pain is entirely pointless, so she continues. 

A maester—no doubt summoned by Pod—arrives, one of the young ones that had come north from King’s Landing sometime in the immediate aftermath of the war, and tells her precisely what she already knows as he merrily rotates the arm (she grits her teeth so she doesn’t shout, but _fuck_ that hurts and she’s not completely silent either) until a searing pain indicates the shoulder is back where it belongs, and smooths a salve over it to help with swelling. 

“Some essence of nightshade will help, if you find sleep difficult,” he is saying. “You will need to—”

“Keep it stable for several days, refrain from any real exercise for at least a sennight—”

“A fortnight at least, Ser Brienne. I have seen your training.”

“A sennight at _most_ ,” she counters, aware that she will be out within three days. It is only her left shoulder, after all, and the training she engages in (Jaime aside, which hardly feels like training and also she will think about that _later_ ) is hardly strenuous. “And it will take several moons before it recovers full strength, as it did the last time and the time before that.”

“Perhaps your refusal to rest is the problem,” the maester says dryly, but Brienne looks at him.

“I did listen, the first time, and it took the same time and drove me mad from boredom.”

“Then perhaps I’ll speak with your lord husband,” says the maester, and she is about to unleash the roiling fury she’s felt since the fall when a languid voice speaks from the doorway.

“Her lord husband is far more likely to take her side.”

The maester turns and Brienne looks past him so they are both staring at Jaime, who is leaning against the doorframe and looking positively _amused_. 

“She must—”

“Must refrain from injuring herself further, yes. I believe we’re all in agreement about that. But knights of the realm do not have the luxury of recovering like maidens fair, and you are looking at the best of them. Ser Brienne will take reasonable precautions, I’m sure.”

And then Jaime flashes the maester a smile and steps into the room, and the maester actually _agrees_ , and within two minutes he has gathered his items and left, only throwing a final warning over his shoulder as he does, and Brienne stares at Jaime.

“Did you just _Lannister_ the maester?”

As soon as she says it she regrets it, because he is doing his best to be something else, but he grins insouciantly and saunters further into the room.

“Apologies, wench,” he drawls. “It was the only way I could think to save you from coming to blows with the poor man. Which might have been entertaining, but not necessarily good for your command.”

Which is a point she must concede, so she offers him a smile that turns into a grimace when she shifts her shoulder.

“You’re hurt,” he says, his hand rising slightly before falling to his side.

“That is usually what a maester is for,” she replies, but the concern in his eyes is undeniable and so she admits, “A green recruit with rather more enthusiasm than natural talent. I misjudged the length of his reach, and hurt my shoulder in the fall.” 

And it isn’t until that moment that Brienne realises she is dressed in trousers and a thin shift, the ties loosened so the ointment could be applied to her skin, and she feels her face flush red. It’s not that… it was far more modest than what might be found in any army camp in Westeros, and Jaime is clearly watching her face (which should be disconcerting, but she’s fairly certain he’s trying to be courteous, which really makes the whole experience worse), it’s just that she is half-undressed and sitting on her bed and she’s painfully aware of all this is not and cannot be—he is not looking at her like his wife. Like a woman. This is not an intimacy borne of trust, but of necessity. It is not, despite the strange hum flooding her body, _anything_. (She doesn’t _want_ it to be anything, but it is difficult to forget it might have been once.)

“That ought to be immobilised,” he says. “Can you put your tunic on?”

She manages, gritting her teeth the entire time, while Jaime leaves the room and returns a moment later with strips of linen. He unfurls one of the strips and Brienne fashions a sling, but maneuvering it into position causes pain to flare in her shoulder again.

“Let me,” he says.

And it is unkind of her, but she is in pain and she is tired and she is honestly confused because he’s looking at her with… not sympathy, really, because sympathy is a little too close to pity, but _understanding_ perhaps, and he’s stepped closer and she catches a hint of Jaime’s smell in the air between them and it is—gods, it is so familiar, tugging at her viscerally. And so she opens her mouth, tone biting. 

“You think you’ll have more luck with one hand than I have with two?”

Taking no offense, he merely smirks and moves the fabric so she can slip her arm inside. 

“I think you’ll have more success with three hands, wench, which is what I’m offering you.” 

He seems almost amused, and Brienne remembers his own caustic tongue when they’d first met. She’d have to be far more vile to rile him up, and she doesn’t particularly want to fight.

“Thank you,” she concedes. 

It takes a few minutes to get the sling into position—it really isn’t three hands but two working at cross-purposes, and the length is hard to get quite right—but Jaime chats to her almost amiably as a distraction. 

“Addam wrote back,” he says. “Or, I suspect, Tyrion through Addam.”

Arya had uncovered a name when looking into Fenton Waters (the less Brienne knows about _how_ , the happier she was going to be, so she definitely doesn’t ask), and ravens had been dispatched south in the hopes of learning more about this Gilberd of Tumbleton. Most had gone through official channels—Lady Sansa to Lord Tyrion and Lord Footly in Tumbleton, Brienne to the Lord Commander of the Southern Stewardsguard—and were all formal and vague. Jaime, however, had written to his cousin (who was, by what Brienne was sure was no coincidence at all, the aforementioned Lord Commander) in a far more veiled manner, seemingly nothing more than a letter about his new marriage to any stranger who read it, and everyone is expecting that to be the inquiry that bears fruit. 

“That was quick,” she says, trying to hide the wince as Jaime reknots the sling, which still isn’t sitting right.

“It was,” he replies. “The story Waters has shared of his life seems to be, at best, a fabrication, which is making it difficult to find this Gilberd. He advises caution—which is why I suspect Tyrion’s hand behind the missive—and promises to send more details via courier when there is something to relate. It’s not much, but at least it gives us reason to be suspicious.”

Brienne sighs. Waters has not stepped out of line since Jaime’s informal confrontation (and Pod had gotten her up to speed on _that_ particular situation, and she’s almost impressed with the fact Jaime didn’t gut the man where he stood), but she still cannot be comfortable with his presence. 

“Or perhaps he’s just a young man far too pleased with himself and trying to be more than he is, and all this is for naught,” she sighs. 

His fingers brush the nape of her neck as he adjusts the sling, skin on skin, and her eyes flutter shut.

“Painful?” he asks softly.

“No,” she replies, her voice hoarse, her skin humming at the contact. She clears her throat and stands, her body brushing against his as she rises. “No, it’s nothing.” 

***

To Jaime’s immense surprise, it takes Brienne four days to get back on the training yard, which is a good two days longer than he had expected. Not that she’d allowed him to rest—their sparring sessions had been replaced with drills, her voice whip-sharp and biting through the cold morning air, even today. But she is back with the greenest recruits this morning, and Jaime leans against the railing that overlooks the courtyard where the training is taking place. 

He hears the sound of quiet, tentative footsteps behind him and does not react until the intruder stands beside him. 

“Ser Jaime.”

“Lady Adalys.”

He looks at her from the corner of his eye, her elegant body wrapped in furs to ward off the chill, noting the tiny hint of a smile that crosses her face as she sees Brienne. They both watch the training for some time in companionable silence, until Lady Adalys sighs at a particularly quick thrust of Brienne’s sword as she demonstrates a stance.

“Should she…?”

“Almost certainly not,” Jaime replies. “But she’s defending her left, and I’m not sure even _one_ of those boys could land a hit if she stood still.”

It is an exaggeration—he knows full well the gangly child standing on the edge of the group and looking suitably ill is the one that had knocked her down and caused the initial injury, but it is close enough to the truth and will appease Lady Adalys to boot.

“Evenfall’s maester used to despair of her,” she says, sounding almost wistful. “And her father was so certain he would lose her, to the fighting or to his own refusal to let her be.”

Jaime understands, more than he cares to admit—it’s Brienne in all her maddening glory, and Cersei in her glorious madness, and Lady Sansa with a southern heart and a northern spine, and all the ladies of court he’d once dismissed as irrelevant.

“Our daughters are never ours,” he says, Myrcella’s sweet face twisting the knifepoint in his heart, and he hopes Lady Adalys does not know the depths of his understanding. “We can only love them as best we can, and hope the world is kind or they are strong enough to make it so. Lord Selwyn did better than most.” 

Lady Adalys gives a small, measuring murmur of agreement, and Jaime keeps his eyes focused on Brienne, seeing the way she pulls back from a downswing with the smallest hesitation, his hand tightening on the wooden rail. They are silent again. 

“You do know why I’m here?” she eventually asks, though there’s no real question in it. 

“I do,” he says softly, then in the interest of honesty adds, “As does Brienne.”

Lady Adalys winces, and he feels some degree of pity.

“She understands why,” he offers. “And if you know Brienne half so well as I think, you’ll know that it will make no difference in how she treats you. She will not lie.”

“And you, Ser Jaime of Tarth?”

The words are sweetly said, but he can hear the barbs beneath. 

“You will doubt the veracity of anything I share,” he says, “but I will share them all the same.”

Lady Adalys nods. Below them, Brienne winces as sword strikes sword with force. Jaime’s hand tightens on the rail once more, anchoring him.

“Have you ever been to Tarth?” Lady Adalys asks.

“I saw it once, at a distance.”

“It is beautiful, but not grand.”

Jaime gestures at the buildings of Winterfell, in equal parts weathered and new.

“I have no interest in Tarth for its grandness,” he says, “or for what it can give me. My brother is Steward of the South—if I wanted grand, I could demand Casterley Rock be returned to my care. I could demand any number of castles, or reside in King’s Landing. When Brienne becomes Evenstar…” he hesitates for a moment, determined to keep to the truth but unable to forget the truth of what their marriage is, “I will keep her counsel if she wishes, and offer what knowledge of rule I have, and trust that her steadfast honour will keep the people well.”

“Those are pretty words,” Lady Adalys remarks. “Did you practice them?”

“Do you not think that I have seen enough poor rulers to recognise a good one?” he counters. 

“You do love her.”

He laughs, loudly enough that in the yards Brienne turns to see them both and raises her hand, still holding the sword, a slightly confused greeting. Jaime motions in return. 

“I was an absolute beast to her in the beginning, don’t let her tell you otherwise,” he confesses. “The first day I was as lewd as possible, and so pleased that after a year in captivity I could outwalk a great hulking beast like her. On the second we covered even less ground, and I realised that she would pause before I would grow fatigued. And she… she wasn’t kind, but she was merciful.”

“And you loved her ever since?”

“Hells no,” Jaime laughs. “I hated her. I hated her certainty that she was in the right. But I _respected_ her, even if I refused to admit it even to myself. And then we were captured and… the hatred was rather unnecessary under the circumstances.” 

He remembers all too well the moment he realised that she was as stubborn as he was, as certain in her own rightness. _“If you were a woman, you wouldn't resist? You'd let them do what they wanted?”_ Even now he remembers her back against his, the need to tell her of course he would, that honour meant nothing to the dead, but he’s never been good at lying, not to her. “ _If I was a woman, I'd make them kill me. But I'm not, thank the gods.”_ Perhaps best to skip that part.

“Did she tell you of Harrenhal?” he asks instead, bolstered by Lady Adalys’s small nod from the corner of his eye. Brienne has turned back to her drills. “We were, ostensibly, guests, but Bolton stripped her of her armour, found her this absurd pink gown. And she was still prepared to fight him, no weapon and no protection, utterly resolute. When it was time to part—and I should have fought harder not to leave her behind, though it would not have made a difference—she was still... She was still so _determined_ , not to live but to fulfill her oath.” He smiles despite himself, and turns to look at Lady Adalys in full for the first time since she’d arrived. “I defy anyone to see her in that moment and not love her.”

The woman looks at him, and gives a small smile. 

“You were wrong, Ser Jaime,” she says, and his brow furrows. “ _That_ is a truth I can easily believe.”

From below, there is the sound of swords clashing, and he turns his attention back just in time to see Brienne’s grimace. She really should not be out so soon. Fuck it. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” he says, giving Lady Adalys a small bow, “I’m afraid I must rescue my wife, even if she fails to appreciate it.”

Lady Adalys’s laughter follows him as he bounds down the stairs to the courtyard with less than half a plan, and thanks whatever gods were listening that Brienne’s young opponent nearly trips over his own feet just as Jaime pulls into shouting distance.

“If that’s the sort of footwork Ser Brienne is teaching, you’d be better off training with me,” he calls.

She spins to face him, expression irate, but he winks and saunters forwards and she clearly reads _something_ from it, because her scowl quickly changes.

“It might do them good to have an opponent they can beat,” she replies tartly, moving towards him; but as they draw level she hands him the training sword and mouths a _thank you_ , and the delight it fills him with is enough to chase away the last vestiges of the morning chill.

He squares off in front of the recruit and raises the sword.

“Let’s see your starting position, then,” he says. 

The boy is almost good, and Brienne gives him a few commands and he _is_ good. As Jaime parries the first blow, he glances towards her and sees the smile on her face. And when the boy uses his distraction to land a hit, she laughs as she scolds him. 

It is not a bad way to spend a morning. 


	9. Chapter 9

Brienne is not too proud to admit that Jaime’s entirely unsubtle attempts to navigate her off the training field are probably wise and possibly necessary, but he manages it with such charm that it does her reputation no harm and he does have some sense of how to train the recruits.

(Some sense, she thinks as she watches him, when truly he suits the role beautifully. The leadership he seemingly rejects in all other matters asserts itself when he is unaware, and she has half a mind to ask him to make the arrangement more permanent. To have the recruits under his tutelage would lessen her own duties—she would still train them as well, of course, but less often—and she doubts he would object. He never seems more himself than when he is shouldered with a sword and purpose, and he has languished since his return to Winterfell, the responsibilities given to him too small for a man used to carrying half the world. Perhaps it should have occurred to her long ago. Perhaps she would not have seen or understood it so well if she had.)

“What did you speak of with Adalys?” she asks that night, her arm bound for the evening—a precaution and a comfort, not a necessity, and she returns his knowing look with one of her own. “This morning, at the training?”

“She displayed the same propensity for cunning games as you, and bluntly asked if I knew why she was here. I said I did, and you did too.” He pauses. “Are the people of Tarth _incapable_ of deceit, wench?”

He smiles in that way that tells her he is teasing, and she smiles back; on this they are aligned. It feels… lighter, to remove one level of deception from proceedings. 

“A choice,” she replies. “It is always a choice.”

She is far less amused a few days later, when Jaime returns to their quarters while Adalys is there. He apologises for the interruption, explaining that he is merely returning for a cloak before taking an evening watch at one of Winterfell’s gates, and not for the first time, Brienne appreciates that he is not a complacent man, or one who leads without making the same demands upon himself. But the appreciation quickly morphs into a growing horror as he goes to his bedchambers, because she realises that they are in their private quarters, and all vestiges of propriety that have allowed them to keep a bearable distance are shattered by the lack of audience, all save the one they still have to persuade. And perhaps she would be able to play it off all the same, but she knows the stories that have been whispered and suggested in the interest of pressing the claim of a contented, unassailable marriage, how remarkable coldness would be in light of them. 

Jaime returns from his rooms far too quickly, fastening the cloak with his one hand, and Brienne has only a minute to weigh up her opponents and act; she rises and moves towards him, gangly and self-aware of her body in a way she very rarely is now—she knows her body, its strengths and how it moves, but to walk like a woman, to seduce… she has never had to take that initiative without certainty of success. (She very rarely had _need_ to take initiative at all, for in that blissful moon it hardly seemed they were apart when alone, drunk on survival and years of missed opportunities, but she had played at it at least, and the memory of the game propels her feet forward.) Jaime glances up, and Brienne can only hope her body blocks Adalys’s view of his surprise, brief though it is; by the time she is within a step of him, his arm snakes around her waist to hold her and she closes her eyes against the gentle assault. Then she opens them and bridges the small distance, bending her head to kiss him —it’s soft, dry lips on dry lips, barely more than a brush—and when she pulls away he _sways_ towards her, his body following hers without thought, an inexplicable pull she can feel in her breast. 

“Stay warm,” she says, softly but not inaudibly, because this is a game, a mummer’s show. 

Her fingers linger on his cloak as she straightens it, the furs soft, and _fuck_ she’d almost forgotten how she’d imagined this after the battle. They’d worked too long hours, had tried (for her reputation) to be secretive even if everyone knew, but in her most secret thoughts she’d imagined wedding him, the freedom to touch him like a wife, love him like a wife, and still be a warrior. This feels, not for the first time, like a cruel parody. She feels her chin tremble and she hates it, and she hates even more the smile Jaime gives her, understanding and ready to cover her weakness. 

“Come now, w-wife,” he says loudly, and only Brienne would have caught the stutter, wench turned to wife so glibly on his tongue, “don’t be shy because we have company. Lecture me on my duty like I’m a squire green, then send me to freeze my balls off.” 

She laughs, for that does seem more like her, more like them, and it might pain her, but it feels _true_. 

“You’ll be late,” she says, and he grins.

“I’ll go willingly if you kiss me goodbye.” 

And then he rises up with certainty, his hand tangling in her hair as he kisses her tenderly, lips parted, and she kisses him back. One moment. Two. Then they part and _fuck_. It’s just a mummer’s show, she’s not supposed to believe it. Not supposed to believe his lips and his eyes and the gentle stroke of his fingers against her cheek as he releases her.

“You’ll be late,” she repeats, hating how breathless she sounds and the soft bittersweetness in his smile as he leaves the room with no more than a murmured goodbye.

The door clicks softly behind him and Brienne places the kettle on the fire, her back still turned to Adalys, hoping the heat will dry her tears before they fall. There is silence for some time, until a whistle informs them the water is heated, then Adalys sighs as if released from some spell.

“I cannot quite reconcile that man with the infamous Kingslayer,” she says softly. “Can men truly change that much?”

“No,” Brienne replies, beginning to fix the tea. “I believe that he is very much the same man he has always been—he can be arrogant, he takes little seriously. He is exasperating beyond words at times. But he is also…” she struggles to explain, and focuses on laying out the cups as the tea steeps. The truth, but not the whole truth. “Think of the dedication and love it would take to become the best swordsman in the land, and then to lose your hand and train again. He carries that same intensity for everything that matters—love, family, duty. Sometimes to his own detriment.”

“Brienne…”

She’s saying it now and cannot stop. It’s funny, really. Some people expect her to hate him, some expect her to love him, and most days she hardly knows the truth herself, for all its maddening, tangling glory. But this, here, this is honest and she cannot slow the words as they spill. 

“He keeps his oaths—” she sees Adalys’s doubt and raises a hand, “I know that seems improbable, but trust me. He keeps his oaths and pays the price of them when he could choose glory instead, His loyalty is absolute. The difference…” her hand actually shakes as she pours the tea, “the difference is that the people who love him now would ask him no dishonourable thing.” 

_And he’d never had it in him to ask it of himself, no matter what he believes._

***

The better part of a moon goes quickly, and the evening before Adalys and her husband are to leave Winterfell, a private dinner to honour them is held by Lady Sansa. Arya is there, and Bran has been persuaded to join (Jaime barely remembers the boy is in Winterfell half the time, he’s been so conspicuously absent since the war), and Arya’s blacksmith, and Podrick, all the people bound together by ties stronger than blood. Jaime cannot feel like they are _his_ family—he doesn’t deserve to, if nothing else—but he is quite certain it has been a long time since he has laughed so easily as childhood and wartime stories are exchanged. Several times he catches Brienne’s gaze and he smiles wider. The kiss from their quarters has not been repeated, he suspects it never will be, but the memory of it warms him all the same. _I love you_ , he thinks. _I love you and none of us would be here without you, one way or another. Without your commitment, your goodness, your skill._

“Tell us about the bear!”

He’s not quite certain who says it, though a part of him thinks it sounds like Bran and the idea amuses him, but he sees Brienne choke on her drink as she tries to deflect and she blushes so prettily (it’s blotchy and red and possibly only pretty to him, but he really does love it) so he joins in.

“The bear, the bear!” he cheers, laughing again when she shoots him a look of disdain. 

“You only like that story because you come off well,” she says, but there’s a teasing lilt at the corner of her lips.

“I come off _terribly_ ,” he counters. “I left an unarmed woman under the care of a man with less warmth than a white walker, and only returned when it became clear I had placed her in more danger through sheer arrogance.”

Her brow furrows. “Is that truly how you see it?” 

“How else could I?” he asks. 

She rolls her eyes.

“It seems I’m to tell the bear story,” she says, blushing further when Arya lets out a whoop of delight. Trust that girl to be bloodthirsty. “I’m not… I’m not quite sure how to begin. Ser Jaime and I had been captured by some of Roose Bolton’s men and taken to Harrenhal. One of the men had taken Ser Jaime’s hand after he had defended me despite the fact we were far from friends and it was my decisions that led to our capture, and he was… unwell. Deeply unwell.” 

There is a hint of sadness in her eyes at the memory, and Jaime forces himself to smile. 

“And _you_ were undoubtedly disappointed by the fact you would never be able to test yourself against the best swordsman in the kingdom. You wouldn’t have won, of course, but it would have been thrilling fun.”

“I seem to recall holding my own perfectly well,” she replies tartly. “And you’re derailing the story.” 

He motions an apology, and she continues to her willing audience.

“Ser Jaime was unwell and still did everything in his power to negotiate my release, and likely saved my life in the process. When he was escorted from Harrenhal—”

“I left willingly despite having no idea whether your father had even been contacted to offer a ransom,” he scoffs.

“ _I_ am the one telling this story, Ser Jaime, and I will tell it however I like.”

“ _You_ would never have left alone.”

“I would have if it was the only way to uphold an oath,” she counters. “Shall I tell them about that?” 

Mutinous woman.

“Continue,” he mutters. “I will _try_ not to correct your more egregious falsehoods.”

“Thank you. Now, as I said, Ser Jaime had been escorted from Harrenhal and Bolton’s man decided I was to be the day’s entertainment. To wit, a hulking beast of a woman who wielded a sword ought to face a hulking beast who wielded claws, and as they only had the one bear, my sword was to be wooden.”

As she relates the early moments in the pit, Jaime glances over the rest of the table—some have heard this tale before, some are rapt, some are horrified. All are suitably impressed by her courage, though the past years have made a single bear far less frightening than it once was. Not that he particularly thinks it would matter if he were left to face one. When she reaches the point of Jaime’s arrival, he sees Lady Sansa swivel in her seat to stare at him.

“You jumped into the pit? Unarmed?” she asks incredulously. 

“In my defense,” Jaime says, “it seemed like a perfectly reasonable option at the time. And if I had kept my mouth shut weeks earlier, Locke would have had no reason to reject her father’s offer of ransom, so it was my responsibility.”

“You’re far too convinced of your own importance,” Brienne hisses, jaw clenched. “They wanted entertainment, and if it hadn’t been the sapphires, it would have been something else. Men like Locke could not be persuaded by any amount of gold or jewels, as evidenced by their rejection of your own ransom offer.”

“Not the point,” he says, though he knows she has the right of it. “Now are you intending to finish your story? Your audience is waiting.”

She shrugs without truly shrugging, waving away her courage with a blithe, “It’s really not that interesting. One of the men escorting Ser Jaime to King’s Landing realised that a dead Lannister was likely to lead to his own death in short order and he distracted the bear long enough for Ser Jaime to boost me out, and then himself.”

Jaime tries, very hard, not to be exasperated. He does not succeed.

“You held off a bear with what amounts to a _stick_ for an absurd amount of time, argued with me when I tried to protect you, and pulled a grown man from a bear pit despite serious injury. You are possibly the only woman alive who would find _none_ of that remarkable.”

“And you risked your own life when you were safe, jumped into a bear pit—despite far more serious injury, I will add—and then brought me south and armed and armoured me so I could find Lady Sansa. You are possibly the only man alive who would find none of _that_ remarkable, Ser Jaime, yet here we sit arguing the matter.”

Her words startle him and he realises how foolish the exchange has been; he glances around the table, hoping it has not done their story harm, and is surprised to see Lady Adalys laughing behind her hand, and Sansa Stark staring at him with the sort of levelling gaze that could cut to the quick of a man.

“I never thought it possible, dear Brienne,” Lady Adalys says, “but I do believe you’ve found a husband as stubborn as you need.”

Stubborn enough, perhaps, but otherwise a failure on every front. He hadn’t even been able to— He stops the thought and sips his wine to hide his scowl, the taste sour in his mouth, and when he lowers the goblet he is smiling again, the image of grace and humour. The conversation moves on, and he finds he truly regains most of his good mood after a few stories. The atmosphere is relaxed, and there is a sense of camaraderie without formality that suits him well. The meal is winding to a close and Arya is relaying some of her travels (the girl is getting restless, Jaime can see it—she is happy to be home, but it is a place she is meant to return to, not to stay, and he wonders how long before those aching feet lead her from Winterfell once more) when there is a knock on the door, and a servant enters and hands Lady Sansa a slip of paper. The mood at the table changes in an instant, and it is Lady Stark of Winterfell that rises from her chair.

“Excuse me,” she says graciously, “a pressing matter has arisen. Ser Brienne, Ser Jaime, I require you.”

She sweeps from the room, and Jaime can only react, a confused glance towards an equally surprised Brienne and a look on Arya’s face that reminds him of her words all those weeks ago— _I do believe Sansa might actually **trust** you_—which does not make him feel any better than it did the first time, but he bows to Lady Adalys and her husband (he forgets the man’s name, which is truly embarrassing) and follows Lady Sansa from the room, falling side by side with Brienne as they stride through Winterfell’s corridors until they reach Lady Sansa’s solarium. 

The Lady of Winterfell is already laying out a map of the north, placing markers at several points.

“Three times in the past fortnight, I’ve sent two supply wagons to separate settlements in need,” she says. “Each time, one of the two has been attacked. This time, a man was killed. I’m to send out two more wagons in the morrow, but… the dark markers are the attacked wagons. This is not my forte. What do _you_ see?”

Jaime studies the map, sparing only a brief moment to glance at Brienne—what he sees is… not reassuring, and from the frown on Brienne’s face she sees it too. The attacked wagons are in disparate directions, in isolated areas, but all too easily reached from one to the other.

“Do the descriptions of the attackers match?” Brienne asks, and Sansa nods.

“Three men, one with a noticeable scar over his brow, another with red hair. One of the wagon drivers thinks they aren’t from the North, but cannot put his finger on why. There’s been no word of them elsewhere though. I thought it was unfortunate the first time, then a coincidence, but this third...”

“Where are tomorrow’s wagons to go?” Jaime asks.

Sansa points to two settlements, and by some small mercy one is a likely target and the other is not; Jaime holds a silent conversation with Brienne, a look and a shrug, because the answer is obvious. 

“I’ll take this wagon,” Brienne says, her finger tapping on the map. “If I bring Arya and wear a hood, we can pass for a man and his daughter easily enough, and there are only two places an attack is likely.”

Jaime nods in agreement; he will ride with the other, but it is merely a precaution—there is only one way for this to play out. 

“Ser Jaime will remain in Winterfell to guard you, Lady Sansa, unless you object.”

Two ways then. He tries not to show his surprise. 

Jaime can see the wisdom in it—he is experienced and trusted when the former is rare and the latter questionable in light of these wagon attacks—but he cannot imagine a Stark ever agreeing to such a thing. A delusion that holds only long enough to hear Lady Sansa laugh.

“No objections,” she says, and there is a _mirth_ in her eyes that makes him think he could have liked the girl if she didn’t so rightfully hate him. He understands Tyrion’s fondness more, for certain. “Perhaps there will be a bear.”

Brienne snorts, and _fuck it_ , he most definitely likes Sansa Stark. 

***

Brienne rises early the next morning, and sees Jaime briefly—another day they would train at this hour, but he is studying a replica of the map from Sansa’s solarium and tells her to spend the time with Adalys instead. It might be years before they see each other again, though Brienne is determined to be a more reliable writer, and she does not need to be told twice. 

The two women walk the yards of Winterfell, talking of all the things that come to mind—childhood memories and things that have happened in their years apart, funny stories and the sorrows that can only be shared in person. Brienne will miss her, fiercely, and however aggrieved she still is with her father’s duplicity in the matter, she is grateful her friend had come. 

When the sun has risen fully and the sound of the nearly completed preparations for travel reach them, they pause in a quiet corner.

“You’re happy?” Adalys asks, and in all the weeks it is the first time they have addressed the matter directly.

“You can tell my father I would have married no other,” says Brienne, and she feels her expression tremble, a weight in her chest. It is the truth, but she can see the path that would have led to a different answer, an unequivocal yes, and the loss of it is palpable in the face of this parting.

“Then I am happy.”

There will be a public goodbye, but this is the true farewell. They embrace tightly, each wiping away tears when they pull away and head towards the main courtyard. Lady Sansa is already there, and Jaime, and Arya. Words are exchanged, promises made to write, a polite public spectacle that Brienne bears because she must. To her surprise, when Adalys reaches Jaime she hugs him.

“You are the closest I will have to a goodbrother,” she says, quietly but not so quietly that Brienne can not hear from beside them. “Brienne and I… we used to play knights and maidens, you know. I couldn’t wield a sword and she couldn’t curtsy like a lady, but it did not matter. We were young girls who wanted things we could never have. Yet look at us now—I have a husband who has provided me with both an heir and freedoms to pursue my own desires, and Brienne is a knight. It is… remarkable.”

Even from the corner of her eye, Brienne can see Jaime’s smile is soft. 

“You are remarkable women.”

“Aye, we are,” Adalys replies, then reaches up to touch his cheek in a loving gesture. “There is one thing we had wrong all those years ago though—she never needed a maiden fair to rescue but a companion on her adventures. Keep well, Ser Jaime.” 

Then Adalys is gone, swept into a carriage that soon begins to move, the parting so sudden it hurts. The carriage passes the gates and Brienne draws a deep breath, aware that duty calls.

“It can wait,” Jaime says. He stands at her shoulder as he had before, but he feels closer. If she flexed her hand, she could so easily grasp his. “Duty can wait another hour.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did Brienne just admit her love and then ignore it for another month? You betcha. Did this chapter accidentally becomes an episode of Everybody Defends Jaime? Also true. Do I have regrets? Only that I still have no idea how long this fic will be, and am just adding the most vague guesses about final chapter count...


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly delayed update and yet another chapter that's decided to split itself into two, but before we get to that I wanted to explain if only for myself: one of the delays in this chapter comes from the fact that Brienne and Arya’s conversation in this chapter uses the word _queer_ , and it was something I struggled with—obviously, to us, there is a very specific connotation of queerness in a sexual orientation or gender sense and using it in another felt odd. I spent several days trying to find an alternative, in truth, but no other euphemism came without negative connotations or carried that same sense of community (ideally) without judgement or the commonality of being outside the norms even if the specific norm varies from person to person, and so queer stuck.

She does not take the hour. There is too much to do and though she is accustomed to it, the renewed absence of her friend threatens to mire her in a swamp of loss if she stills. So she gives Jaime a vague smile and moves to check on the preparations for travel before heading back to her quarters, where she darkens her hair with soot and then rubs some against her jaw—it’s a poor disguise and will only work at a distance, but in the North the bright blonde of her hair is distinctive enough that it is worth obscuring. When she’s satisfied by her appearance in the looking glass, she leaves her chambers to find Jaime sitting in a chair by the table, his feet propped on the seat beside him. He looks at her carefully, then sighs.

“That will never do, wench,” he says. “A man would have to be blind or stupid to think you anything but a woman.”

“Need I remind you of our first meeting?”

“Precisely my point.”

She nudges at his feet to move them from the chair, refusing to acknowledge his comment; she has neither the time nor the inclination to deal with him when he gets like this, some sort of half-joke that only he seems to understand, but she’s quite certain that it’s not an attempt to hurt her, and she knows full well that he’s wrong. 

“We should go over the duties while I am gone,” she says instead, sinking into the seat beside him. 

She _does_ have to give him some credit, because he drops the insolent teasing to focus on the tasks she is asking him to take on in her absence. There’s very little pressing, in honesty—she expects to be gone no more than three days, four on the absolute outside, and he is familiar enough with the running of Winterfell from their evening discussions, but it assures her all the same. And Jaime is competent and insightful and just a little… _sharp_ at the edges, in that sort of way that keeps her from complacency, and by the time Arya knocks on the door and says they have begun to load the wagons, Brienne realises that the initial pain of parting from Adalys has passed. 

“I should go,” she says as she stands, not entirely certain why she is feeling awkward; perhaps it is that sometimes it seems their friendship is composed of little more than quarrels and leavetakings, and this is both different and all too similar.

“You’ll want to take a sword from the armory,” Jaime says, nodding at where Oathkeeper rests on her waist. 

Even hidden beneath a cloak, it is too fine a sword for a merchant, too distinctive for her to blend in. It is also _hers_ , in a way no other sword has ever been. 

“I’ll find another scabbard and wrap the hilt,” she replies. “And try not to draw it until they are close.”

He nods acceptance far more easily than she expects, and there is so clearly something else that he intends to say that she folds her arms across her chest.

“Out with it.”

“Mind your shoulder,” he says. “I know it is better, but it will still be susceptible to reinjury for awhile yet. And I say that not to be condescending—”

“But because you’d say it to any soldier,” she finishes, because she would say it to _him_ if the roles were reversed. He seems to feel guilty for the reminder though, as if he has no right to wish her safe, and it makes her feel worse than any perceived condescension could. “Train with Pod in the mornings,” she says. “And when I come back… when I am back, I would like you to train me to fight with my left hand.”

“Pardon?”

He seems genuinely confused, and she tries to hide her smile. 

“Our morning sparring. There’s no need for me to be the only one teaching, it’s dull. I want you to train me to fight with my left.”

“Any good swordsmen knows how to fight with his offhand,” he says, voice dismissive, “and I’ve seen you use two swords.”

“It’s different though, to only have the offhand,” she argues. She’s been contemplating this for awhile, wondering what she would do if she had injured her stronger arm, and there’s no time like the present. “If it wasn’t, you’d never have struggled so much in the beginning.”

“I was a cocky arse,” he argues.

“But a diligent swordsman.”

“I had not trained even with my right hand in a year.”

“And yet on the bridge you might have defeated me.” 

She sees the surprise in his eyes; they have argued about it, japed about it, but never has she admitted that he may have won. She presses the advantage while she has it. 

“There is nobody in Winterfell I would trust with this save you, Ser Jaime.”

It is true—he is a competent teacher, experienced on the matter, the only swordsman in Winterfell with a level of knowledge equal to her own (there _is_ Arya, but while she is an excellent sparring partner, the teaching of things would be birds to fish), and there would be no discomfort or imbalance of power from a man under her command. But more than that, she _enjoys_ sparring with him, is a stronger fighter for doing so. 

“Very well,” he says begrudgingly, but there is a hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. “If you manage to survive the journey with the feral little she-wolf, we will.”

“I heard that.”

Brienne turns to see Arya has somehow entered the room without her noting it and is leaning against the closed door, arms folded as she watches them with amusement. 

“As intended, I assure you,” Jaime says dryly. “I’ve still not forgiven you for throwing me to your sister last night.”

Brienne’s not entirely certain what Arya’s cocked eyebrow and pleased expression is meant to convey, not Jaime’s false scowl, but they both laugh and she leaves them to it and heads down to the courtyard. She’s certain they’ll follow eventually. 

***

The courtyard is teeming as sacks are loaded onto two small wagons. Lady Sansa presides over the preparations, a calm pillar amongst the chaos, her clear voice ringing out with directions and firmly kind words. She is very like her lady mother in these moments, Jaime thinks as he watches the tableau from the upper floor, and hopes that it is only in the best of ways. 

Soon the wagons are ready to go, drawn by stout northern horses and driven by cloaked figures; it is easy enough to tell which wagon contains Brienne and Arya, even with their hoods pulled low over their brows, but it is possible that it is only obvious to Jaime. He does seem to spend an absurd amount of his life watching Brienne of Tarth leaving him behind. (It is better than when _he_ leaves _her_ though, because somehow that only seems to happen in the face of certain death. The fact that they are both still alive is a testament to their sheer bloodymindedness, and possibly the twisted humour of the gods.) He watches the gate long after they have gone; she had not turned back, he had not expected her to, but he imagines that he can make out the wagon as a speck in the distance and so he does not move until he hears Lady Sansa approaching.

“You will dine with me this evening, Ser Jaime,” she says as she comes to stand beside him, her voice so placid he can read nothing in it. 

He bows his head in deference, meeting placid with placid. “As you wish, my lady.”

There is the smallest hint of derision as she scrutinises him, somehow feeling both sincere and false—she does not think well of him, he knows, but this is a calculated derision, meant to put him on the defensive. He does not react. 

“I remember when lions had claws and teeth,” she says in that same calm tone. 

He wonders what she is playing at. He likes the girl, more when she is _being_ a girl and less when she embodies a queen of ice, but he’s not interested in the games she seems to play, all the worse because they were learnt at the hands of his sister. 

“Age seems to have claimed them both,” he replies. 

It is a neutral answer, the sort he’d long ago learnt to give in moments like this; a stony facade with no handy crags for her to grip and climb upon, but she merely strikes the rocky surface and makes her own. .

“Pity. A toothless lion can hardly defend his pride.”

He snaps upright and turns, looming over her. 

“Do not threaten Brienne,” he growls. “I’ve sworn no oaths to you.”

It is a foolish thing to say, for a myriad number of reasons, but inexplicably—and perhaps not entirely surprisingly—this seems to be what she’d hoped to see, because she smiles at him with genuine warmth. 

“Dinner,” she repeats, taking a gliding step back and turning away. “This evening. I believe it is time we… discuss matters.” 

***

Their ultimate destination is a day’s journey from Winterfell, and their leavetaking is timed so that they may rest at an inn for the night and reach the likeliest places for attack in strong daylight. It does make the first few hours of travel terribly dull though. Neither Brienne or Arya are inclined towards idle conversation, and Brienne resigns herself to the silence; she has travelled alone before, though she’s long grown accustomed to Pod’s presence or, inexplicably, Jaime’s constant narration, and so she focuses on the passing countryside and remains alert to potential dangers.

And then Arya upends her presumptions with a heavy sigh that seems deeply out of place from the young girl.

“Your friend seemed persuaded before she left.”

“Enough that my father won’t drag half of Tarth northward to rescue me, at least.”

From the corner of her eye, Brienne sees Arya tilt her head.

“Would he?”

Brienne laughs.

“There are three blacksmiths on the entire island. They wouldn’t have the weaponry,” she says. “My father would pay a handsome ransom despite his relatively meagre means, more than he ought to for a daughter like me, but he won’t start a war.”

“Then why…?”

Sighing, Brienne tries to explain.

“I am not the daughter he would have wished for, but I am the daughter he has. And he is thankful he has me, even if I left home to fight and even if I never married or had children. If he thought that I was unhappy, if this was anything less than my free and willing choice, he would not rest. War would only fail to be an option because he does not have the resources. There is nothing more hateful to him than to fail to protect those you love, and I am the only one left.”

Arya is quiet for a moment and Brienne thinks this strange conversation is over, but then she speaks.

“It’s lonely.”

“It is,” Brienne agrees. “And my marriage to Ser Jaime is… complicated, but it _is_ my choice. My father loves me, but does not always understand. Persuading him that it is a love match was to set his mind at ease and ensure that I could continue as I have been. A lie, but a necessary one. I _am_ sorry to have involved you.” 

“I’m not,” Arya says, and grins when Brienne looks at her in disbelief. “Not all of us are so fixated on honesty, and I like Ser Jaime nearly as much as I like you. He’s… queer, like us, though he hides it better.”

“Queer?” 

“Can’t you see it?” Arya asks, almost endearingly earnest. “Some people are… queer. I have no other word for it. They don’t quite fit, not other people’s expectations or their own, and they are… well, queer.”

The girl’s words unfold gently in Brienne’s breast— _yes_ , she thinks, _yes I know that all too well, though I’ve never put it in words_ —but still she says, “I’m not sure anybody completely manages to be who they were expected to be.” 

“No, perhaps not,” Arya says. “But this is something deeper. You would think it would be Tyrion, but Tyrion fits too _many_ places even when he ought not to.” Her eyes are alight now, as if she’s been waiting a long time to give voice to these thoughts. “This is… This is my conviction that I am a weapon honed for revenge, and yet I chose to live rather than exact it. It is your knightly ambitions, and yet you wed—”

“I never objected to being wed,” Brienne interjects. “I thought it unlikely.”

“And yet you wed,” Arya repeats. “And Ser Jaime was the Golden Lion of Lannister, sworn to family loyalty above all else, and yet—”

“Don’t,” Brienne says. She knows the girl had been in King’s Landing, likely knows more of the story of the Slaying of Queen Cersei than Brienne has allowed herself to, but she cannot bear to hear it. She knows the truth behind the pretty words, the price exacted, and wishes she did not. “I take your meaning.”

Arya shrugs.

“The point is, I like Ser Jaime. I like you. I don’t mind lying to a stranger about it.”

“Thank you,” Brienne says, and silence falls upon the wagon.

The land they are driving through is flat and free of trees, which makes it easy to spot anyone approaching. It is a peaceful day—spring is ever closer, the air fresh. If it were not for the fact they are out in the hopes of attracting bandits, the journey would be quite pleasant. 

“Why did you marry him?”

Brienne sighs. 

“I’m beginning to see why he doubted I’d survive the trip,” she says. “That’s not a matter for you.”

“Don’t tell me I’m too young.”

And Brienne is definitely thinking so, for all that it is absurd given Arya’s life these past few years and how in another lifetime a girl of her age would have been bartered and wed, but mostly she just does not wish to speak of it. 

“It is complicated, and not your burden to bear,” she says. “And you’ve never struck me as the sort to be sighing over romance.”

“I’m not!” 

Arya’s tone is defensive, but there is a hint of pain beneath it, multifaceted and delicate and utterly, achingly familiar to Brienne. And she does not want to discuss her relationship with Jaime, but she cannot bear to see an untethered young girl either. There is noone else to have this conversation, not the way it needs to be had.

“It was practical,” she says, “and I know how awful that sounds, but let me try to explain.” Arya nods, and Brienne deliberates for a moment, trying to find a _way_ to explain without revealing too much or saying too little. “I knew that I should marry, regardless of how my father feels, for the good of Tarth. I could name an heir, but a succession by blood is the best for stability. There’d be no worry of bastards if it weren’t. And I swore that I would not marry a man who could not best me in battle, back when I was even younger than you.”

“So Ser Jaime has beaten you?”

He’d disarmed her in training, but it had never been a loss—a chance to learn, yes, but not a loss.

“No,” Brienne says. “But the point of the declaration was to ensure I would not marry a man who did not understand my strengths or thought to change me. Ser Jaime is far more likely to give me a sword than demand I lay one aside.”

“So you found a mildly tolerable man and put aside all your own desires?”

“I never objected to marriage,” Brienne repeats, “and I’m not finished yet. Will you please listen.” She’s not particularly good at this, though there is a perverse part of her that is guiding her words merely on the principle of saying the exact opposite of what Septa Roelle would say if she were here. “Ser Jaime understands me and I him, and we are… friends. That is strained by choices he made, and perhaps some I made, but it is still true. He needed a marriage for protection, I will eventually need an heir; marriages have been built on less, and faltered on more. It was a choice that allowed me freedom while fulfilling my duty. If matters cannot be resolved another way, it is tolerable.”

Tolerable except for when he looks at her and she remembers what it was like to have everything and to lose it, but that is not what needs to be said. 

“I wouldn’t do it,” Arya says.

“There is no reason for you to. Our positions are different, and our duties.”

Arya drops her head to her chest. “Gendry asked me to marry him. Again.”

Ahh, not curiosity about Brienne’s alliance but uncertain for her own. That does make more sense. All of Winterfell has seemed to collectively decide to ignore Daenerys Targareyn’s legitimisation of the Baratheon bastard, but it is still complicated.

“Do you wish to?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Arya says. “I am no lady. I have no desire to forever stay at home, not even in protection of it. No offense intended.” The girl smiles at her, though it does not reach her eyes. “But I cannot imagine losing him any more than I can imagine losing myself, not after everything else, and if I say no… he will find a wife, I’m sure, and I will.”

“Marriage is not the only way to be family,” Brienne says. “My father only has me, but I have Podrick, and I have you and Sansa and even Bran. I have Adalys, in our own way.”

“And you have Ser Jaime.”

“I suppose I do.”

“Even if you’re right, though, he will marry and have children and it will be different. I had thought to ask him…” 

The girl looks oddly vulnerable, and Brienne feels a more naturally maternal woman might hug her and it would not be unwelcomed. She shifts the reins of the wagon to her left hand and reaches out to lay a hand over Arya’s shoulder instead. The girl breathes deeply.

“I had thought to ask him to come with me, when next I journeyed. But I cannot deny him marriage if he wishes it, even if it means I go alone.”

“Does he wish for marriage, or does he wish for marriage to _you_?” Brienne asks; she does not know the young man well enough to answer, but finds it hard to believe that he could both love Arya and want a wife who kept house and home in obedience, though men had surprised her before. 

Arya laughs.

“I’ve been tying myself in knots for _moons_ over this,” she says. “Is it truly that simple?”

“I don’t know,” Brienne answers honestly. “But it is at least a good place to start.”

“It is. Thank you.”

The lapse back into silence, saying little beyond the occasional observation until they are in sight of the small inn where they will spend the night. Brienne checks the wrapping on Oathkeeper’s hilt before they reach it, can feel the shape of a lion's head beneath her palm though it is softened by the linen wrapping, and tries to ignore the churning uncertainty Arya’s words have stirred in her own gut. She has her duty, and she has made her choices, and she cannot regret either. She does not regret either.

(Regret is not the feeling that haunts her.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heat wave bad. Brain melted. Chapter delayed. Many apologies. Heat wave broken, thank heavens. Also, action scenes are really hard when you have two of the most lethal fighters in Westeros against a couple of twits who can't even bandit well.

The inn is small, a low, single storey building with stalls and rooms for no more than a handful of travellers and horses. Brienne remains back, relying on distance and shadows to pass for a man as Arya barters for room with supplies from the cart. Barley is more useful than silver here, the wheel of cheese worth more than gold. They are the only guests for the night, and it is arranged for dinner to be brought to the small but tidy room she will share with Arya. 

Brienne keeps her head down and goes through the motions, wishing that there was not quite so much silence in it all, her conversation with Arya echoing. _Tolerable_ , she’d called her marriage, but that’s not quite what it is. If Jaime and Cersei were so entwined that the line where one ended and the other began was unclear, Brienne knows that she and Jaime are two wholes—battered, yes, but whole—forever to exist in the same spheres, but never subsumed. They will never be so inseparable that to try would rend the heart from both, but she is glad for that. It is more hate than love, to love like that. 

(Perhaps _they_ were never so entwined as they believed though, because Cersei has been gone for nearly half a year now and Jaime still draws breath, is in remarkably good health in fact, and moreso every day. There is a metaphor here of vines so thick they choke themselves, but Brienne feels it might be too cruel to give voice to, even in her mind.) 

Their marriage is… easy, in some ways, because they are of a similar mind and disposition, because they understand one another as comrades, because they are experienced enough to expect nothing else. (She longs for more, she can and will not lie to herself; that defense crumbled weeks ago in the face of familiarity and she cannot quite bring herself to care that there are days she can still summon the memory of the burn of his beard against her thighs, of the easiness of intimacy, they way it had felt to be loved and cherished. She remembers, but she never expected to have it and she can let it go.) 

And yet, for all the ways it is easy, it is still immensely complicated. Their similarity in mind and disposition means they can come to quarrel quickly, words forged into weapons and with no closeness to soothe away the wounds in the aftermath, and lately she feels as if not to quarrel is worse because it often feels like unearned deference at the cost of honesty. They understand each other, perhaps better than they have ever understood themselves, every flaw and foible exposed. They are too experienced to expect the other to be anything different than what they are, for better or worse; it is why she loves him, and why she cannot. It would be easier if she hated him for the choices he has made, but she’s not certain they were _wrong_ in the ways that mattered. What was one woman for a kingdom, a month to a lifetime of commitment? What is love compared to one’s own honour? 

But for all her thoughts of simplicity and complications, it boils down to this—she swore to protect him, in that brief time when he’d been hers to protect, and that vow had not been easily discarded. It is hard to believe that it has been all of three moons since they’d exchanged words in the sept, so short and so long a time in equal turns. And for all the long and short of it, they have, against all her expectations, crafted a strange and placid existence. 

She realises, with some not entirely welcome clarity, that annulment has not crossed her mind in earnest for several weeks—words are not a battle which can be fought and won through sword and shield, there is no definitive enemy on which she can pronounce triumph. And yes, sometimes… sometimes she can still feel the loss of what they might have been, an undercurrent in what seems like still waters, but she is cautious and a strong swimmer, and perhaps… perhaps it is not unbearable, a marriage based on mutual respect and little more. There would need to be an heir for Tarth, but she is still relatively young and Jaime has proven his virility, so it ought not to take long and they can resume their current arrangements soon after. (Her mind conjures a little girl wielding a sword nearly as big as she is, and quickly squashes it—a boy would be better, tall and strong like Galladon) And if the birthing bed were to take her, Jaime would raise the child for love and duty, and competently care for Tarth in the interim. It is more than she could expect from a marriage. 

Yes, the whole thing is remarkably _tolerable_. But even as she thinks it, Brienne knows that she had more than tolerable once and she won’t settle for anything less, not for anyone, not for any vow. It would do her well to remember it, and focus on the things that matter. 

***

Sansa has arranged for them to dine alone in her solar, and the knowledge fills Jaime with an odd combination of relief and trepidation. It is only Podrick on duty outside the doors, and Jaime suspects the young man’s presence is to deter people from coming in, not to protect Lady Sansa from the threat of him. Which seems a silly thing to think when he has, in theory, been entrusted with her care as well, but he is so accustomed to suspicions that he thinks it regardless. And perhaps not unduly; despite this display of trust, the invitation is far from _comfortable_ —Sansa’s face is cool and her eyes fiery as she gestures to the spread on the table. It is generous, but not so fine as to give the illusion of attempting to impress him. It reminds him, oddly, of a meal a prisoner might be served before his execution, if his jailer were generous, and says so.

“I do hope, if you must take my head, that you will wait until Ser Brienne returns,” he says as he takes a seat across from her, playing it as a joke though he’s not certain it is. “She might enjoy being the one to swing the blade.”

Lady Sansa’s lips narrow.

“Do you know her so little? Your death would give her no pleasure and much grief.”

“A jest, my lady.”

“Brienne is not your sister, Ser Jaime,” she says coldly, and the purpose of this meal crystallises in an instant. “She will not retaliate for the pains you have caused her, and she is true.”

_A truer knight than you will ever be_ , he hears Lady Catelyn say from the distance of time and the grave. 

“I know,” he says, more softly than he means to.

She sniffs. 

“As unfathomable as I find it, I believe you do,” Lady Sansa says. “I would not have welcomed you in Winterfell if I was anything less than certain.”

“Is this the point where you tell me that if I hurt her, you will inflict every moment of suffering I deserve upon me?”

He almost wants her to say yes, a threat to ensure his compliance, though he knows all that will matter are his choices. 

“Tempting, but I doubt Brienne would appreciate the offer,” Lady Sansa says, and then smiles slightly. “And I’m not sure there are enough years to inflict _every_ moment.”

“I doubt you’d have the stomach for it. You are not my sister either.”

The smile falls. “I would try, for Brienne.”

“There is nobody more worthy of such loyalty,” he says, “but believe me when I say that the cost is never worth it. Not even for her.”

Sansa watches him for a moment.

“I cannot make sense of you, Ser Jaime,” she eventually says.

He takes a sip of the wine before him, eats a piece of cheese as he contemplates his answer. 

“I am a man who truly believed that you cannot choose who you love, and allowed himself to do both great and terrible things in the name of it. Nothing more nor less.”

“That does not seem so unusual,” she says. “I suspect many of us could say the same, if not on quite so grand a scale.”

He smiles wryly. “It would be much simpler if I were merely a villain.”

“Brienne would not love you if you were truly villainous.”

The words sting all the more because Lady Sansa does not seem to mean them to. 

“She does not love me,” Jaime says. “She did, once, and I proved myself unworthy of it. What lingers is… obligation, on her part.”

Lady Sansa hums, and Jaime realises he’d half-hoped her to argue, assure him that of course Brienne loved him; no such assurance is forthcoming.

“And on your part?” she asks.

Her eyes are blue, but they lack the depth and sincerity of Brienne’s. It’s a strange and errant thought. 

“When I came to Winterfell, during the war, I told her I would be honoured to fight under her command—”

“You fought at her side.”

“I did. It was where I was of most use to her.”

“Ah, so you have come to _serve_ her. How gallant.”

At this precise moment in time, Jaime is regretting every modicum of warmth he’d ever felt for the Stark girl, even if he knows she merely seeks to protect Brienne in her own way. It is an impulse he understands, but she is too coy, too evasive in her purpose. He does not wish to play, and opts for bitter honesty. 

“It would be terribly noble of me if I said yes,” he says. “But no. I’m here because I’m too fucking selfish not to be. I’m here because I want to believe that by being so, the great might eventually come to outweigh the terrible.”

It is no secret that he loves Brienne, but he’d might have just as well exposed his unarmoured belly and handed Sansa Stark the sword with such an admission. He sits more upright, squares his shoulders; he is unworthy of loving Brienne, but he will not apologise for doing so. Sansa continues to look at him.

“I do not think I will ever like you,” she eventually says. 

“I would not expect you to.”

He truly would not. There has been too much personal suffering at the hands of his family for him to hope for anything more than the begrudging trust and hospitality she has already extended. Even that is a generosity that his family would never have contemplated granting. She sips her wine, the silence between them pregnant, and when she speaks it is so quietly he almost does not hear her.

“I am not certain that this is a simple equation, great and terrible things in balance.”

“Pardon?” 

Her voice rises, firm and regal.

“Great and terrible are so subjective, at times,” she says. “Tell me, Ser Jaime, if you were there again, knowing what you do now—would you trade your children’s lives for my brother’s legs?” 

He gives her the courtesy of considering the question, though his heart knows the answer instantly. Perhaps it would have gone so differently if he’d chosen kindness, the wheels and cogs of Westeros so hard to see even in hindsight. Or perhaps he would have seen his children murdered brutally, his sister’s head hung on the walls surrounding King’s Landing, his own life spared and bartered for by his father. 

“Joffrey’s, perhaps,” he says. “But not Tommen and Myrcella. They were as innocent as Bran.”

She nods.

“And yet we see it differently, for Bran is my brother as much as they were your children.”

“Moreso,” Jaime says; the bitterness of this has mostly faded, leaving only a dull and aching pain. “They were mine, but I had no claim to them but as an uncle. Your loss is greater.”

“You loved them. Enough to do great and terrible things. That is enough.” Sansa smiles, a bittersweet understanding crossing her features. “They were kind children, despite their mother. I’m truly sorry you could not save them.” 

Old grief batters at him. It has been too long since he has been able to speak of his lost children, too long since he has allowed himself to truly be anything but his use to others. Not since Brienne, before, and… a long time before that. Sansa looks at his with a surprising amount of knowingness. 

“I have often been perplexed by your ability to inspire loyalty, Ser Jaime,” she says softly. “Your brother. Brienne. The men of Winterfell. But I believe I am beginning to understand. Despite your family, you give your loyalty so _easily_ when it is deserved that it is effortless for people to return it.”

It’s not an absolution, he would not want it to be, but it feels… it feels as if he has been seen by someone who could rightfully choose to look away instead, and there is relief in that. He still does not expect her to pour herself another drink and toast him with a small rise of her glass.

“I know your loyalty is with Brienne,” she says, “but I hope it is with Winterfell as well.”

He thinks of Brienne. He thinks of Podrick, and his strange almost-truce with Arya, and the men he has come to know through battle and training, the servants who slip him extra cakes for his wife when he asks, the women he tries to protect from unwelcome advances. The fucking North. There is no question. 

“Of course, my lady.”

“Good.” She meets his eyes, jaw set. “I wish for you to join the Stewardsguard.” 

*** 

They meet a handful of people on the road from the inn—a woman with a hand-drawn cart, a man who limps and halts to greet them as Brienne does her best to hide her face, a man on horseback who canters past. They tense at each one and try to hide it, Arya’s hand falling to the wagon’s seat where her dagger rests, Brienne shifting her cloak so she can draw her sword quickly, but each traveller passes without incident. They get through the first likely place of attack, a heavy copse of trees with a twisting set to the road that make it difficult to see much ahead or behind, and reach the second an hour later. It’s a set of high and rocky hills where the road is not wide enough to allow two wagons to pass at once, effectively meaning only two people are needed to overwhelm a traveller on the road when three attackers are reported. 

“Alive,” Brienne reminds Arya as they approach the narrow pass, and the girl gives her an incredulous look. 

“Do you really think I need to be told?”

They share a smile, and Brienne urges the horse forward.

It’s Brienne that kills the first man; there is a narrow dip in what is nearly sheer enough to count as a cliff face, too small to be visible as they approach, and the man leaps at her side of the wagon as they pull level. She draws and slices on instinct and the sword guts him, his hand only managing to reach the wound with incredulity before the light fades from his eyes. Brienne has already turned away, drawing the horse up short as she and Arya both jump from the wagon. The other two bandits are approaching, one each direction, but they can’t be certain that is all there is so they take a defensive stance by the wagon and wait for the approach. 

It has been months since Brienne has had a true fight, and she blames the time for the mistakes she makes. Arya relies on her speed, quick to dart in and out, hard to predict; it serves her well, but it is so different to the way Brienne moves that they do not work well in tandem, do not fall into a natural rhythm of two swords wielded as one. (It has been _months_ and still Brienne expects it, somehow, the memory of the battle for Winterfell hewn into her bones.) The fight lasts only minutes, but there are openings Brienne doesn’t cover, misjudged strikes. Not a bad fight, all in all—one of the men is killed and the other is captured, the man with the scar above his eye—but far from her most efficient. In the end, though, none of it matters; Brienne holds the third man firm as he squirms, a hand in his hair and her arm thrown across his body to keep him against her chest.

“Who do you serve?” she growls.

“None of your business, bitch,” he spits, writhing. 

Her grip tightens and she yanks his head back.

“Who do you serve?”

The man’s eyes widen as he looks at her properly for the first time. 

“I’ll be fucked,” he says. “You’re his bloody whore and you don’t even know.”

The implication takes only a second to hit, and is rejected even more quickly. She holds his hair and draws her arm back, so it is Oathkeeper against his flesh. She presses it, firmly enough the man will feel the bite of Valyrian steel against his stomach but not firmly enough to draw blood.

“Who. Do. You. Serve.”

“The Kingslayer,” the man repeats. “Jaime Lannister.”

There is a blur of steel and flesh in the corner of her eye, a gurgle. Brienne drops the body in surprise. 

“I don’t hear _anything_ while fighting,” Arya says as she reaches down to retrieve her dagger from the man’s neck, as easily as she might discuss the weather. “People listening to a prisoner might not have the same discretion.”

“Arya... ” Brienne begins, and remembers a farmer she chose not to kill. The thought goes unfinished. 

Wiping the blade on a piece of scrap fabric, Arya tucks it back away and looks at Brienne.

“It’s not true, don’t tell me you think so. If nothing else, this plot is too stupid to be Ser Jaime,” she says. “But I don’t believe we should mention this and open up room for doubt.”

If this is an attempt to cast doubt on Jaime’s loyalty—and it does not take a great tactician to see that it seems likely—it is clearly orchestrated by someone who knows him very little, and understands subterfuge even less. 

“Agreed,” Brienne says.

“I mean it,” Arya repeats, adamant. “Not even to Sansa. She thinks she’s forgiven him, but… I would not test it, not yet.”

Brienne thinks of the young woman she believes to be a friend, who has so accepted Brienne’s words of Jaime’s honour on multiple times and helped craft the illusion of a happy marriage at her request. The young woman who has been betrayed by men and Lannisters so often, who is quick to offer Jaime’s expulsion from Winterfell. She trusts Sansa, of course she does, but Arya’s words make her wonder if she trusts Sansa _enough_. 

Brienne sighs and bends down to investigate the bodies, hoping to find answers.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still adding best guess chapter numbers, but honestly at this point you might as well read this as X/? and I apologise for that.

Brienne and Arya incinerate the bodies, both of them grimacing at the familiar smell of burning flesh—it is not a pleasant task, but it is better than to leave them to rot and faster than trying to bury them in still half-frozen ground. They don’t speak much as they do, hauling what fuel they can to make it burn quicker and watching the sun in the sky—they still must reach the small settlement, preferably before night falls, and while the men match the descriptions given of the attackers of the previous wagons, Brienne and Arya cannot be entirely certain that these men were the only bandits on the road. The work is dull and repetitive and familiar, and the comfortable silence allows Brienne time to think, though not enough time to make a decision—she can’t dismiss Arya’s concerns, but she can’t bear the idea of lying to Sansa either. She is becoming far too accustomed of telling half-truths to friends, but this feels worse. It will be a deception not just in what is left unsaid, or a careful selection of truth, and that is a bridge she is not certain she can cross, not for this. 

She tries to imagine that it is another man accused, to give herself the distance she needs, but the truth is that there is no other men like him. Not in the ways that matter. He is innocent, of this at least, and so is hers to defend; but she would not need to defend him if he was anyone else, because his innocence is obvious. And Sansa has welcomed him to Winterfell, offered him a home to save his life, accepted his aid and protection. ( _Better to know your enemies and keep them close_ , whispers a small voice that sounds very much like her lady.) But it is at war with the way Sansa is so quick to offer his absence, with Arya’s warning that Sansa believes herself far more forgiving than she is, the sort of thing a sister might know all too well. With the niggling suspicion that Brienne herself, when left between protecting those she loved and a villain of her own childhood, might be too quick to make the call and err in the process. (She can still feel the weight of every contemptuous _Kingslayer_ she had levelled at Jaime, after all; she is not immune.)

The question plagues her as they head north of the narrow pass, as they reach the village, as she lies in her bedroll that night and watches the stars (a bed was offered, but she is restless and irritable and there is a comfort of the star-filled sky above her), and it plagues her as they return to Winterfell the following day. Sansa and Jaime are both in the courtyard when they arrive, and merely seeing them side by side and with a veritable icy canyon between them fills her stomach with dread. This is not the first-thaw-of-spring friendship she’d left behind, and clearly Arya sees the same thing, because as they climb from the wagon she gives Brienne a warning look, the first time she’s acknowledged the situation since her words the day before. 

“Ser Brienne,” Sansa says, stepping forward and placing her hands on Brienne’s elbows, a strange half-embrace. “How was your journey?”

“Eventful,” she said, then lowered her voice. “We were assaulted, as expected, though the supplies were delivered on time and were greatly appreciated.”

Sansa nods. 

“And did they give any indication of how they knew of these shipments? I see there are no prisoners with you.”

There is a sharpness to the question, and in the cold twilight it is suddenly very easy to see a vindictive, merciless queen in her. Just the blue-tinted shadows, perhaps, but Brienne wonders (and it is unbecoming of her, unfair to Sansa who has been so kind a friend and ally) if she perhaps _knows_ of the accusations against Jaime and is merely waiting for Brienne’s confirmation before striking. Brienne tilts her chin up slightly, though it has been many years since she has needed to do so to gain height in an argument.

“Nothing of use, Lady Sansa,” she says, distressed at how easily the words roll from her tongue. “I’m afraid they took us by surprise and died quickly for it.”

“Pity,” Sansa replies. “We will continue to make enquiries, of course. I will require you in my chambers before breakfast in the morrow. Arya, you are to come with me.”

And with that, Lady Sansa sweeps away, colder and more distant than the stars Brienne had watched the night before. Brienne watches her go, hoping she has made the right decision. 

***

“I’m sorry.”

The words fall from his lips as soon as they cross the threshold into their shared quarters, and Brienne turns to look at him in confusion. 

“You’re sorry?”

“Lady Sansa,” Jaime explains. “She’s cross with me, not you. I’m sorry that you bore the brunt of it.”

Brienne gives an odd sound, like a strangled chuckle, and quickly sheds her outer layers before collapsing into a chair. 

“Your timing is impeccable,” she says.

“In my defense—”

“Don’t. Not yet.” She rubs at her temple. “Just… Can you ask for a bath to be drawn for me?” 

If Brienne had arrived back in Winterfell on the back of a dragon and wielding Brightroar, Jaime would have been less surprised than he was. (He’d also be significantly more aroused, which is entirely inappropriate when she is clearly distressed, but the image is in there now and he knows perfectly well that it is going to follow him into his bed and he feels far less guilt than he thinks he should.) But as he’s trying to _not_ be a total bastard, he just nods his head. 

“Of course,” he says. “I’ll have water and food sent up, and make myself scarce.”

Another strangled half-laugh, and Jaime is unpleasantly reminded of soldiers who make it through a battle with their bodies intact and their minds not; he looks at her properly, the sort of assessing look he tries to avoid because he can’t shake the suspicion that he’s going to see too much (too much pain and too much power and too much vulnerability), and he doesn’t know what he’d do if he did. But he looks now, and while her skin is slightly grey and there is tension in the corners of her eyes (startlingly blue even here, and he wonders why he’d never pressed a kiss to her lids when he’d had a chance) she is still clearly _Brienne_ , alert and alive.

“Come back,” she says. “We need to talk, and… I trust you. Not to look. The privacy will... “ she laughs again, and gods the sound makes his chest ache. She shouldn’t laugh like that. 

Somehow he doubts his presence is helping in any way, so he nods again and leaves the room. Requests the water first, makes his way slowly to the kitchens and lingers as long as he can. Runs across Arya as he is returning, laden tray in hand—she gives him a level look.

“You really fucked up,” she says, motioning down the corridor towards the door of Lady Stark’s private chambers. “Sansa’s furious.”

“I stand by it.”

“Never said you were wrong, lion-man,” she grins. “I tried to make her see sense, but… tread lightly. Brienne would not be impressed if you lived this long only to die doing the right thing.”

_They're going to destroy that city. You know they will._

(He can’t think of that night. He _can’t_. Because it was the right thing—it was, it was, even if he hadn’t known for certain as he’d done it—but they had stood in that empty courtyard and she had begged him to live and he’d been so tempted to let her pull him to safety and it would have destroyed them both. It was the right thing, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t regret it, just a little.)

“Not planning to die, she-wolf,” he says, rather than think of it. 

“See you don’t.” 

Then she reaches up and plucks a small cake from the tray, placing it in her mouth before smiling insolently and padding away. And it is entirely ridiculous that this strange almost-friendship assuages some of his concerns, but the girl would put a knife between his ribs if she thought him in the wrong and it makes it all a little easier. Even if she did steal his bloody cake. 

When he returns to his quarters, one of the servants is just finishing the filling of the bath while Brienne apologises for the inconvenience, as if the biggest hero in Winterfell doesn’t occasionally deserve a bath in the privacy of her own quarters. Jaime sets the food on the table and thanks for the girl, smiling and ushering her from the room in that way he knows drives Brienne mad because it’s so bloody _efficient_ and nobody would ever do it for her. (She’s too honest to succeed, but he likes that honesty so all in all it is not a particularly big loss.)

When the door closes, he turns to see Brienne in the firelight; she still looks tense, and it is probably best to just tell her the whole thing, but his lips twitch and before he can stop himself he is raking his eyes over her body. (Gods, she is stunning and he’s not actually supposed to be reminding himself of the fact, but it’s incredibly hard to ignore.)

“Water will get cold,” he says. 

Her shoulders square up and she _glares_ at him, and there she is, the warrior (not) maiden he knows so well. 

“Turn around,” she demands, fingers reaching up to the ties on her shirt.

He complies, taking a seat at the table and ignoring the rustle of clothes and then the soft slosh of water as she climbs into the tub, the exhalation of relief. He can see it in his mind so easily, her skin beaded with water and golden in the firelight, the scars and freckles and callouses he’d once traced with his tongue. 

“Why is Sansa angry with you?” she asks when she has folded her long limbs into the tub.

“We had dinner, the first evening you were gone. She asked me to join the Stewardsguard and was… displeased with my answer.”

“You declined?” 

He can hear the surprise in her voice.

“I said that I would defer to your judgment.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“She’d just spent the previous few hours making it clear she would make _The Rains of Castamere_ look like a child’s lullaby if I stepped one hair out of line, to begin with,” Jaime says dryly. “And more practically, I thought that you ought to have a say on the men serving beneath you.”

Admittedly his tongue had been a little more caustic when he’d said so to Sansa’s face, which was perhaps not his wisest move, but he stood by it. Without their complicated history, he is hardly a desirable a recruit, and with it…. No, he will not consider it without her consent. 

“I’d agree with you, but I’m not certain I’m in any position to turn away a competent fighter with leadership experience.”

She isn’t wrong, it would be foolish to turn him away given the circumstances, but she _does_ have a choice; one her honour will not allow her to see, perhaps, but he has to believe that she has a choice. That she would be honest if she did not want him. (Because if she could not, then somehow this marriage is even worse. She might not love him, but he wants to believe that she has chosen this alliance. Chosen him.)

He can’t say any of that though, so he tilts his head just so (she’s watching him, he’s certain, and hopes it is not with wariness) and injects as much humour into his voice as he can manage as he says, “You think I’m competent, wench?”

She laughs. It’s not loud or long, more of a small huff she can’t repress, but it has lost that frantic edge and that is enough. 

“In an army filled with farmers, at least.”

It is his turn to laugh. Brienne is smart, tactical, but witticisms are not her speciality. When she manages one, there is an unmistakable hint of pride behind them that delights him every time. 

“It’s true, though,” she says, and he can hear her sinking deeper into the water. “I have too many responsibilities and no real second—there are men I can assign roles to, but none who understand the bigger picture. Pod is closest, but he’s… too inexperienced, I suppose. Not yet ready to take initiative. And he’s busy with Fenton Waters besides.” Jaime straightens at the name and she’s still watching him, because she says, “What?”

“In a moment,” he replies, waving his hand. “Continue.”

“I’m not sure what else there is to say. You know the difficulties facing me, you’ve aided me with enough of them.” He has, he realises—the training sessions he has taken on, the advice he has given after their evening talks. “So yes, I would welcome you. The question is, do you _want_ to?” 

“If I am useful—”

“That is not what I asked, Jaime.” The shock of his name from her lips almost has him turning around—she’s worn the propriety of _Ser Jaime_ like an impenetrable shield—and only manages to stop himself when he remembers she is naked. _I trust you._ She doesn’t seem to notice though, because she continues, “I asked if you wanted to.”

He tries to remember the last time someone asked what he wanted and meant it. He has spent so much of his life being informed of what he must do, even if he has proceeded not to do it. (He has no doubt that played into his reaction to Sansa’s request, which was so clearly intended as a command. He should be above such pridefulness, but habits of a lifetime are not easily broken.) Occasionally he might ask for what he wants, even if it is almost always denied. But to be asked? It is more rare than he cares to think, and of course it is what she offers, what she has _always_ offered—a choice of his own, to do good. To be good. He owes her a thoughtful answer. (He owes her everything, really.)

“What would you require of me?” he asks. 

“Loyalty. Insight.” 

“It’s yours.” _It has always been yours when it was mine to give._

“I would have you keep my confidences. Raise objections when I am wrong.”

“Have you ever known me not to?”

She is silent for a moment.

“Of late, yes,” she finally says. “I will not break over a disagreement, and I need to trust you. Promise me.”

“You would trust my word?”

“I would,” she says quietly, and he can hear the amusement in her voice when she adds, “And if you wish to deal with all the petty personal politics that bore me to tears…”

He laughs. This is more than he ever thought offered, more than he dared to want. And yet it is, inexplicably, the culmination of all the roles he has played before. Knight and leader and lord and perhaps simply Jaime, just a little. 

“It would be my greatest honour,” he says. 

(There is one honour that would, does, surpass even this, and he had not held onto it.)

***

They talk of Stewardsguard duties as Brienne finishes her ablutions, divying up what tasks they can and discussing what revisions might be made for the duties, nothing they have not done before but the understanding is new. It is his responsibility now too, and some part of her thinks this is where he was always meant to be. She would never have asked, but she can imagine nobody else, and despite her recent doubts she is thankful to Sansa for this gift. 

When she is ready to rise from the water he offers to leave the room and she almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of the situation; but she is tired and there is much still to discuss, so instead she tells him not to look and dresses hurriedly, then comes to sit at the table.

“I lied to Sansa,” she says the minute she takes her chair, and he nearly chokes on his bread. 

“When? _Why?_ ” 

“Today, and because I believe it to be the right thing to do.”

He had witnessed her brief conversation with Sansa, and it does not take him long to deduce the nature of the lie.

“What did you learn from the men who attacked you?”

She butters a slice of bread, her eyes focused on the knife in her hand; it will not be easy to tell him. 

“They were from the south, as expected. I do not know who hired them or why, but the man I spoke with was adamant that they were hired by the Kingslayer.”

“I—”

“It’s obviously nonsense. Nobody with any sense would entertain it.”

“And yet you lied to Lady Sansa.” 

There’s no judgment in his words, for good or ill, and when she glances up, there is no judgment in his eyes either. 

“I…You were both furious. It felt like throwing alcohol upon a fire in an attempt to extinguish it,” she says, flustered; she’s still certain that it was the right decision, but she does not appreciate being complicit in lies against her lady once again. “But it is nonsense. Even if you _were_ the most cunning man in the kingdom and playing us all for fools, he called me… he called me your whore.”

“So it is someone who wishes me ill, but knows little?”

“Perhaps,” Brienne says. “It is also… I suspect we could be married fifty years and there would still be some who thought me nothing more than your whore, given our… relationship, before.” She swallows against the lump in her throat, a strange combination of the thought that their marriage might persist beyond the next moon, the next moment, and the scorn that rests solely on her for choices they had both made. “But while I might believe you would call yourself Kingslayer, I do not believe you would tolerate men calling me a whore.”

It would be unknightly, if nothing else, but the unerring tenderness in his eyes tells her all she needs to hear. She’s struck with a sudden, mad urge to stroke his cheek in gratitude, a brush of skin against skin to seal this understanding, but it is unneeded. After a moment, they both glance away. 

“Perhaps it is not to cast suspicion on me, but to drive a wedge between yourself and Lady Sansa,” Jaime observes. “If they know you at all, setting your oaths at odds…”

“Perhaps,” Brienne says. It is an interesting thought, worth consideration, but she is tired of thinking of it for now. “The courtyard was not the place to discuss such things, regardless.”

He nods in agreement, passes her the plate of cheese that is slightly out of her reach. .

“Speaking of open ears, I did receive a letter from Addam while you were away, about our mutual friend.”

Preoccupied by more recent events, Brienne had almost forgotten that he’d written to his cousin about the Fenton Waters situation. 

“Did he have much to say?” 

“There is still no news from Tumbleton or the Gilberd he writes to,” Jaime says, “but Addam found a man who knew him in King’s Landing. Apparently he made no better impression in the south than he does here, but the man does recall Fenton spoke with a hooded woman several times in the weeks before the Northern army returned home and Fenton joined them. There is no description of the woman, but he says her voice gave away both her sex and her Highborn status.”

“There can’t have been many Highborn woman in King’s Landing at that time?” Brienne says. “Anyone with sense would have fled, if they were able, and returned when the war was over.”

Jaime nods. “Addam is continuing his inquiries, any Highborn woman within a day’s ride of the inn. With the chaos of war, it’s hard to say how successful he will be.”

“It is more than we had before,” Brienne says, and she is not certain she is just speaking of Fenton Waters. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay between updates—I thought I would have more time while travelling, and not only did I not, but the travel itself was so consuming that it wasn’t a quick update when I got home.
> 
> In happier news, however, I have been incredibly lucky to have not one but _two_ marvelous pieces of fanart made for this story: one by @ronordmann and one by one by @floating-in-the-blue. If you’re on Tumblr, send them all the love because they are WONDERFUL and deserve it. 😍😍😍

They train the next morning, even earlier than usual. It starts as it always does; Brienne runs him through some drills to commit the movements to muscle memory, then they spar lightly as he tries the forms, adapts them to his own needs. He is _good_. It shouldn’t be a surprise, and isn’t truly, but there are days that the unfairness of his injury strikes her. The things she might have learnt from him with two hands…

Twenty minutes later, Jaime grinning at her with an expression somewhere between taunting and affection, she has changed her mind entirely.

“Watch your elbow.”

“Oh, fuck my elbow,” Brienne spits, squaring up with her sword once again. “Are you this insufferable with the recruits?”

The bastard twirls the sword in his hand easily and shrugs.

“I would be if any of them were good enough. Feet.”

And she’d known that training with her left hand would not be easy, but she’d underestimated it all the same; years of instinct have her moving to shift her sword to her strong hand, wielding the left as a supplementary weapon, and she is more frustrated that the habits that make _her_ so good are making _this_ so difficult than she is with Jaime’s blunt corrections. 

“I ought to tie the hand behind my back,” she huffs.

“No, that won’t—elbow—that won’t help,” he says, mirroring her stance so she can see how sloppy it is. “You can’t think of it as what you’ve lost, but what you still have. Tying your arm back will throw off your balance. There’s no point training if it just gives you bad habits.”

She huffs again, adjusts her position; it still feels off, but better. 

“You make Ser Goodwin seem beneficent,” she says dryly.

“Good.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Of course it was,” he replies. “He trained you, so he clearly knew what he was doing. I’m merely pushing you further.”

“Pushing my patience, perhaps,” she mutters, but the entire reason she had asked him to train her is because she knows he is right; he won’t pander and he will push, and having been in this position by necessity he will understand her frustrations. 

“Strike at me,” he demands.

She does, a solid stroke he parries, but she _feels_ it now, where it was wrong and where it was right, and moves to go again.

“You’ll have to ignore your instincts,” he says, “but you don’t want to lose them, you’ll always be stronger with your right. Think first, bide your time. I’ve seen you fight, it won’t be hard.”

“Shall we dance, then?” she challenges.

It is so very much like a dance; he is not fighting her at full strength or speed, but with enough finesse that it is a genuine challenge. It’s smooth, the steps intuitive, a weaving in and out, the gentle kiss of the swords when they touch; they make no sound save the occasional correction he catches before she does, a grunt at a particularly hard hit. It goes on indefinitely; there is no victor here, just the pleasant hum of a sword in hand singing in her blood, and they might have gone until the sun was high in the sky if they were not interrupted by a genial cheer. They part and bow before turning to see Arya standing on the edge of the yard, smiling.

“Sansa is ready for you,” she says to Brienne, then turns to Jaime with that same strange half-smile that Brienne has learnt most likely means _friendly teasing_ , even if she hasn’t quite been able to figure out the rest. “You can come help me. Don’t worry, I’ve been informed that it would be _poor manners_ to murder you.”

“Oh, well if _manners_ are stopping you…” 

Brienne watches him hang his training sword on the rack and refasten Widow’s Wail, set against the wall while they trained, back onto his waist. Then he looks towards her and inclines his head, smiling. 

“Ser Brienne.”

“Ser Jaime.”

His lips twitch, his eyes motioning towards Arya though his head is still.

“Will you avenge my untimely death if I do not return?”

“I will applaud her ingenuity,” she replies, smiling and then turning her own gaze to Arya. “Do try to do it far enough from the castle you can leave him for the wolves.”

Arya rolled her eyes, her amusement evident.

“As much as I would like to plot Ser Jaime’s death, Sansa _is_ waiting,” she says. “It would not be wise to make her wait long.”

The words are an unpleasant reminder of the world outside the yard, where death is a real concern and possibly the least pressing of them, and Brienne’s good mood evaporates before Arya and Jaime are out of sight. She hangs up her own sword and sweeps her eyes over the now-empty yard; there is no sign they were there, and heads inside to Sansa’s chambers.

The young Lady of Winterfell is fully dressed and already mired in papers when Brienne knocks on her door, and she gives Brienne a small smile when she steps inside.

“Sit, please,” she says. “I do believe I owe you an apology.”

“Not to me,” Brienne says automatically, wishing she’d bit back the words as soon as they hit the air between them. Sansa laughs though, quiet but mirthful.

“Arya said much the same thing,” she confesses. “Well, she said my behaviour was _unbecoming of a lady_ , which was not an accusation I thought possible for her to make.”

“If it helps, Jaime is _incredibly_ aggravating,” Brienne says, finally moving into the room fully and taking a seat, unable to completely hide her exasperated smile despite the circumstances. “But he was not wrong.”

“No,” Sansa says. “Rude, but not wrong. I thought…” Sansa sets aside the paper in her hand, sighing heavily. “These past few weeks, with Adalys, it became clear that Jaime is devoted to you.”

Absurd though it is, the words send a strange spike of discomfort through her breast.

“I don’t think—”

Sansa raises a hand.

“I am not… I don’t understand him, and it’s not to say anything in particular with that observation, but… the loyalty he showed in that time is not something that can be false. I meant to _reward_ him with that offer, for there is no one so deserving of that devotion as you, and that it would benefit Winterfell greatly in the process was a secondary consideration.”

It is strange, but for a moment Brienne feels only pity for a young woman who has spent the last years believing that loyalty could be so easily bought or discarded; Brienne’s own oaths alone are not enough to teach her otherwise, nor does she expect them to be, but it hurts to see a tender heart so armoured all the same.

“And if you were dealing with another man, it might have been wise to offer,” Brienne concedes. “But would you have handled it so with me?”

“Never,” Sansa says. 

“And I would never have agreed if you had,” Brienne says softly, glancing at the hands she has folded onto her lap. “Ser Jaime has spent too many years being maneuvered for the advantage of one person or another. I know it might not seem so, but… it is the unfortunate truth. Rank honesty is far more successful with him. Sometimes past the point of kindness or good taste.”

“Then I am sorry, truly, for doing so.”

And for a moment, she believes this is it—a misunderstanding has been rectified, and in the sanctity of Sansa’s quarters Brienne can lay the facts out simply. The men who had attacked the wagons were from the south, dead, seemingly attempting to lay the blame at Jaime’s feet for whatever nefarious purpose—to discredit him, or to ensure his execution, to drive a wedge between Sansa and Brienne as he himself imagines, it matters not. Arya’s warnings were wrong. Brienne’s own instincts simply cannot separate this moment from another, half-truths and details she still shies away from knowing. It is _simple_. 

And then Sansa’s face darkens.

“He thought I meant to take his head,” she says. “Still, you are happy with this marriage?”

There is a distaste to her words, and Brienne… she knows that Sansa is coloured by her own experiences and attempting to _protect_ Brienne, but it seems they have had this conversation too many times now. She is suddenly glad that she has not told Sansa of the false words against him, for Brienne is certain she would wield them as a club in this even if she did not believe the accusations, and she’s not entirely certain she _wouldn’t_. 

“I…” Brienne realises her hand has moved to brush against her sword, and takes a deep breath. She merely must get through this with as little dishonesty as possible. “Neither of us could have truly expected to marry for love, Lady Sansa, whatever stories and songs we might have read. Ser Jaime is considerate, has never demanded his marital dues or that I give up my position. He is, as you said, devoted—not because I am me but because I am, at this time, amongst those he considers family. When he swears to the Stewardsguard—he did agree, and easily, once declining was an option—he will give that same devotion to his duties. And I know you do not care for his company, but I _do_. He is smart and observant, and a good leader. While he may not love me, he does respect me. I could not have ever conceived so good a marriage if I had tried, Lady Sansa, and I did try.”

_All of this is true, and all of this is for naught_ , she thinks, _for I loved him, love him still, and know him too well to be happy like this. But it is enough for now, and she need not know otherwise. (It is the smallest of the lies I have told her of late.)_

***

Jaime isn’t quite certain what Arya Stark wants from him, but she clearly has some destination in mind and so he follows out of a combination of curiosity and self-preservation. A few minutes later they are outside the forge.

“You ought to commission new armour,” she says, flashing him a knowing look. “For your new position.”

“I don’t recall saying I would accept.” Not to anyone save Brienne at least, and she would not have had an opportunity to tell others. 

Arya doesn’t dignify the protestation with a response, merely pads into the forge and drags a man out to meet Jaime. He’s spoken with the blacksmith before, though his name escapes Jaime as he hastily and awkwardly explains the reason for his visit. 

(In the shadows of the forge, he sees Arya talking with young Gendry and then both of them slipping out a second door, and at least he understands _why_ she’d brought him along, and she’s right that he ought to have his own armour instead of whatever Winterfell’s armory has to offer, so he’s content enough to help her out.)

The blacksmith—Ralf, he finally remembers—is happy to take the commission, if Jaime does not mind that it will take some time. Winterfell is much repaired, but there is always more work to be done.

“I have half a hope to never need it,” Jaime replies and the man snorts, which is really the only possible response to such optimism. “Whenever you can will more than suffice.”

“We can talk now, at least,” Ralf says, retreating to a table in the forge that is laid out with papers. He does not look in the direction where Gendry should be working with such deliberateness that Jaime has to hide a smile, deciding he will never tell Arya that on this matter she is not at all stealthy. 

They spend the next hour or so discussing the armour design; Ralf ask questions about Jaime’s fighting style and limitations of his absent hand, taking measurements as he goes, and he has an idea for Jaime’s right vambrace that will allow him to use it as a blunt weapon in close quarters. He has Jaime wear a spare vambrace for that, testing various weights until he finds one that does not slow Jaime’s movements but will hit with some strength, and once they have hashed out the practicalities, the topic of ornamentation is brought up. “No red and gold,” Jaime says, “I’m sick of them both.” (When the armour is presented a moon from now, it will be painted in blue and silver—“For your wife to find you more quickly on the battlefield,” Ralf will explain with a grin—and Jaime will happily admit that, for all the fine armour he has worn over the years, this is the set that suits him best.)

Eventually they are done, and Arya and Gendry have returned from wherever they had been, and Jaime thanks the man and heads towards the hall to break his fast. Arya is the one to follow this time, and as they are crossing the courtyard, Jaime asks, “So when will you leave?”

Arya freezes at that, just for an instant, and then shrugs.

“Who says I will? If I go, I will leave Sansa alone, or near enough. Jon’s gone north and Bran is...” she shrugs again. “I haven’t decided anything yet.”

Jaime’s not certain whether she means to convince him or herself. Either way, he gives a small sigh.

“Can I give you a word of advice?” he says.

“I suspect you will even if I say no.”

He chuckles.

“Love your family, but don’t live your entire life for them. What’s good for the pack might not be best for the wolf.”

He expects a flippant comment about lions, which in fairness he absolutely deserves, but she just nods.

“I know,” she says.

“You can always come home again,” he says. 

“Yes,” she agrees, and then her eyes narrow, far too much shrewdness in them. “Can _you_?”

He wishes he knew what home could even mean, now.

***

The ceremony is to be held at dawn two days later, and as Jaime dresses by candlelight he finds himself contemplating the idealistic young man who had sworn himself to the Kingsguard all those years ago. His reflection in the looking glass is older now, more grey. Some days old injuries protest with aches and pains, and he is (obviously) missing the hand that had made him worthy of the position the first time. But he is wiser. Freer. He would not go back to the child he was for all the gold and glory in Westeros, and that will have to be enough. 

The Godswood is quiet when he arrives; Lady Sansa stands before a weirwood tree, a regal woman of the north, and Brienne is at her side, shoulders back and head held high, every inch the Lady Commander. He sees Pod and Arya and Gendry, which he expects, but he is startled by the steady stream of faces that come as he does—men he has fought alongside, women he knows from the kitchens, children he has helped to train. Many give him a solemn smile and find a place to stand, ready to bear witness to this. He swallows hard and seeks Brienne’s eyes despite himself; he has sworn oaths before and come to regret them, but the smallest inclination of her head is all the reminder he needs that these are different. That he is different. 

When the arrivals have slowed to a trickle, Lady Sansa stands impossibly straighter and silently demands the attention of all who fill the clearing. 

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” Sansa says, then hastily adds, “of Tarth,” and so he is fairly certain that the name is not an intentional slight. “Why have you come today?”

The words come easily, rehearsed as they are. 

“At the behest of the realm, and to answer the call of Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Steward of the North, and Ser Brienne of Tarth, Commander of the Northern Stewardsguard.”

Sansa inclines her head and motions for him to step forward; she is good at this pageantry, and there is a sincerity to it that Jaime can appreciate. He kneels before her, his sword laid across his knee. When she speaks, her voice is melodic and commanding. 

“You know why you have been called?”

“I do.”

“And do you come to pledge your life to the service of the realm, to defend its lands and its people, to keep the peace when you can and fight bravely when you cannot, and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?”

Jaime raises his eyes to look both women in the face; the vows they have constructed are ones he is happy to make, and his voice does not waver as he makes his pledge. 

“I, Ser Jaime Lannister of Tarth,” his lips quirk a little at this even in the face of solemnity, the name of the man he was and the one he strives to be, “do pledge my life and my honour to the protection of the realm, and to the Steward of the North for so long as she serves it in good faith. I shall be your shield and keep your counsel, obey the fair commands of those I serve, and ward the realm and its people with all my strength.” He bows his head, surprised at the emotion clawing at his throat, ready to render him mute. But he will not be silenced, and breathes deeply before continuing, “I shall seek to be just in the name of the Father, merciful in the name of the Mother, brave in the name of the Warrior, and wise in the name of the Crone. I will be the defender of innocents in the name of the Maiden, and the mender of rifts in the name of the Smith, until such time as the Stranger calls. This I swear before the eyes of men and the gods old and new, and will keep to til the end of my days.” 

He feels the weight of a blade on one shoulder, the silence that has descended upon the Godswood.

“Arise then, Ser Jaime,” and it is _her_ voice, the one that has told him to _live_ and _there is honour_ and _this is bigger_ and _live live live, live through battle and choose life and oh Jaime_ (he can’t think about that, not here, not now) and _the gods haven’t claimed you yet_ and _live_ , the one who has called him _Kingslayer_ and _Ser Jaime_ and _Oathkeeper_ , the voice that is strength and warmth, the one that he will follow onto the battlefield and into bedchambers and anywhere else she asks of him, and he thinks perhaps she has some idea of this because she clears her throat and repeats, louder and clearer, “Rise, Ser Jaime, man of the Northern Stewardsguard.”

He rises. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter decided to split itself in half, so the emotional truth bomb I promised is coming in the next chapter. Apparently they had to blather internally a lot first.

The weeks after Jaime is sworn into the Stewardsguard go by with surprising speed, though very little changes. The days are much the same as they’d been, a series of training and patrols and meetings, and he cannot always resist giving Brienne a relieved smile when she has an afternoon filled with dull discussions and he is set to be in the courtyards with recruits. (And even if he could, the exasperated roll of her eyes makes it worth doing anyway.) The whole thing is really quite… rhythmic, he supposes; not so repetitive as to be dull, but with a familiarity that is quite welcome. 

Their evening discussions continue as well, though now he is an official member of the Stewardsguard most of _those_ discussions are held during the day, and the evenings are shorter and kept for more light-hearted fare—they swap childhood tales and stories of fights they’ve won or lost, and Brienne comes up with a series of increasingly elaborate titles for his position just to exasperate him. (The evening Lady Sansa joins them she attempts one of her own with a tentative smile, and the whole thing feels rather like an offer of truce.) It is pleasant, though he still refuses to be known as Right Hand of the Lady Commander of the Northern Stewardsguard regardless of how loudly it had made Brienne guffaw. 

“That is a terrible joke,” he had scowled, more than a little disappointed that he had not thought of it first. 

“Left hand, then?” she’d replied, and he’d groaned. 

(But it does not escape him that they _can_ joke of this with no hint of distaste or blame, and though it is perhaps the smallest of the gifts she has brought into his life, it is still precious.)

As for more nefarious plots, further supply wagons are not attacked. He knows the lie to Lady Sansa weighs heavily on Brienne, though the one time he had raised the issue she had scowled and merely asserted that she stood by her choices, but it quickly falls to the back of his mind. It’s not forgotten entirely, he’s not foolish enough for that, but there’s not much he can do about it as things stand. Fenton Waters is even less useful—he hasn’t attempted to approach the servant girls again, but they manage to intercept two more ravens and there is _nothing_ of use in the notes. Jaime cannot understand why Lady Sansa insists on keeping him around, though Brienne says something in passing about knowing your opponent’s position that is a little more illuminating than perhaps she had intended. 

The one thing that has changed is Jaime himself. He has known for awhile that Winterfell has become home, not just for Brienne and not just for the protection found within its walls, but that morning in the Godswood he had realised that it is a home that does not take without giving, does not demand everything of him in return for scraps of affection or approval. He is learning, still learning, but it is… it is different. And it makes it that much easier for _him_ to be different, or perhaps for him to be who he had wanted to be all along.

Which is not to say that it is without its difficulties; though many have welcomed him with the fierce staunchness he’s learnt to expect from Northerners—it is remarkably similar to Brienne’s, in truth, and he delights in asking her whether her mother was secretly a northern woman, for it would explain a great deal, including her tolerance of the cold that has only mostly faded to a mere chill—not every person is happy to break bread with a Lannister. 

He never feels it more keenly than a morning they are touring Winterfell’s defenses—it’s a routine thing, Brienne’s diligence driving her to personally do so once a fortnight even though the important repairs have long been completed, and Jaime accompanies her because books rarely make mention of the many quirks that come with any large group of people, and he has quite a bit more practical experience than she does. 

Most people are happy to see them both, and the route takes twice as long as expected because they stop to talk with what feels like half the men, women, and children in Winterfell. Jaime watches her with… not pride, because that feels rather like trying to claim credit, but a deep warmth. (It’s love, he knows it is love, but to say so even in his head is to dare the Gods, and so he does not.) While Brienne is universally beloved, and rightfully so, a few people still regard _him_ with suspicion, looking from the corner of their eyes as if they expect him to transform into a lion if they dare to glance away or face him fully, and he doesn’t begrudge them their distrust. But when an older man waits until Brienne has moved out of earshot and Jaime has not to make a mutter about Cersei’s death....

Well, he had underestimated Brienne’s hearing. She turns and strides back, and Jaime expects him to take a half-step ahead of him to block his body—they’ve done it often enough—but she stops at Jaime’s shoulder, a united front instead of an offer of protection. 

“Mick,” she says, firm but not unkind, “I know you lost your Alf in the battle for Kingslanding, but you would have lost Meg and Charlie and the little ones too if Queen Cersei had come north. Whatever your feelings for Ser Jaime, you are perfectly welcome to have them. But do not allow your grief to cloud your good sense.” 

He glances to where she stands tall, her cheeks somewhat chapped by the sharp wind and her eyes glistening, and he loves her, he cannot even try to deny it in the moment and let the Gods hang him for it. She is the truest woman he has ever met, kind and strong and _good_ , and sometimes the truth of it is so heavy that it hurts. She sees and knows everyone’s pain, alleviates what she can; she would bear the entire weight of Winterfell on her shoulders, out of duty, yes, but out of love too, and it pains him to know that she does it with no expectation of reciprocation. (He reciprocates as best he can, but the gesture seems meaningless when he knows he is the cause of so many of her griefs.)

“If he meant to do it, he ought to have killed the cunt long ago,” spits Mick. “Saved us all a lot of trouble.”

Jaime flinches. He can’t help it. The man is not entirely wrong—if he had seen Cersei for what she had become sooner, perhaps it would have been different; perhaps King’s Landing would have been saved its destruction, perhaps he would be Brienne’s husband in more than name. But he had allowed the wrong love to cloud his vision for too long, had _hoped_ for far too long, and there is no undoing what has already been done.

“When faced with a difficult choice, Ser Jaime did what he needed to do,” Brienne says, and Jaime is fairly certain that no matter how calm her words, he is not imagining the angry edge in her tone. “That he loved his family well does him no discredit.”

Jaime hears it even before Mick, and is braced when the laughter comes. 

“ _Loving_ his sister is the problem,” Mick says. “It’s a wonder you can bear his cock—”

“ _Enough!_ ”

There’s no missing the anger in her voice now, and Jaime raises his hand as if to tell her to leave it be, it’s not worth it for _him_ , not when it’s about _this_ , but she pays it no mind.

“Mick, I think highly of you and your family, but that is _enough_ ,” she continues, and _fuck_ actually, Jaime can’t help but think that Tywin Lannister himself might have quelled before the tone she’s employing. It’s impressive, and not a little terrifying. “Ser Jaime is a good man. And he will be the first to say that his choices were not always the right ones, but in his place you might find that your own decisions were not so simple as you presumed. Like him or not, you’re welcome to your opinion, but you will not speak of him so.” 

And it is strange that even now she has more faith in him than he does in himself, a pillar of righteous certainty he does not deserve. There’s a muttered apology that Jaime doubts is sincere, but it’s not as if he needs one, and they continue their tour of Winterfell. When they are truly alone, Jaime stops walking and waits for her to turn and face him.

“You didn’t need to do that, wench,” he says, because he wants so desperately to call her just _Brienne_ and is certain that he will break if he does, so wench will have to do. “Whatever good I do now, whatever acceptance I find here…” The whole of it is on the tip of his tongue, all the mistakes he made for far too long, but he can’t admit it even to himself. (He wants to believe, for just another moment, that he is worthy of her faith.) “Whatever else I might be, I still deserve far worse than that.”

“No,” she says simply. “You don’t.”

And while he is learning, always learning, that he has a place here, he wishes he believed it with half the conviction she does.

***

It is one of the great absurdities of Brienne’s life that she can go days before remembering that she is, in fact, married. When a relationship begins with dragging the other person halfway across the continent, being held prisoner together, and watching them nearly die, the intimacy of sharing an apartment is rather easy to overlook. It is, somehow, just the way it is when they are (briefly, it is always briefly) on the same side of a conflict. They work together and they dine together and they tend to drive each other mad, but it is… it’s the way they _are_ , when they are allowed to be. That she had stood in a sept nearly half a year before and made vows is, at most, a tertiary consideration.

There are, of course, times where it seems she can hardly escape the knowledge, when the spectre of what this could have been is read in every laughing passing reference to her husband, in a too-familiar touch when they spar, in a letter from her father that asks whether an heir is forthcoming yet and if she would return to Tarth for the birth. She forgets those moments as soon as possible, throwing herself further into her duties or the training of her left hand. But whatever complications there are in her life, she is _happy_. (When she is in a particularly contemplative mood, she wonders whether she can keep most of this felicity after the annulment, because she can’t imagine he finds the arrangement any more bearable than she does, but he seems happy and perhaps… but she can never consider it for long.)

Her left-handed fighting has improved in the moon since she’d begun training, enough so that when they spar it is an exertion on both their parts and it makes her blood sing. And then one morning he’s particularly ruthless, his hair grown long enough it curls over his forehead in an embarrassingly distracting manner, and it all goes to at least three of the seven hells.

In the interest of honesty, she will admit that she initiates it—her grip slips ever so slightly as he comes near and she kicks out on instinct, and it sends him reeling back. But he smiles and shrugs, and the rules are set. This is not training, this is a fight, and they are both determined to win. He’s strong, she’s stronger; she’s fast, he’s faster. They throw themselves into it, predicting each others' movements, wielding their swords with dexterity. It’s a collision, a dance; muscles ache and breath comes short, sweat breaking out as neither gives quarter.

When they pull away, his eyes are dark and his grin is feral, and there’s an aching stab of desire in her traitorous body, so she lunges forward again, strike, slash, slam, the coppery tang of blood on her tongue as she bites her own lip. He grunts, parries, thrusts. She crashes her shoulder against his, feels his exhale against her ear which is frankly _ridiculous_. He keeps the proximity, uses it to his advantage, staying close enough she can’t use the sword effectively, hooking a leg around hers and pushing at the same time she grasps to force him away, and they both hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and weapons. 

And then he is above her, his breathing coming hot and fast, his hair and his eyes and his too-fond smile because he lives for this, fighting, and _fuck_ suddenly all she can think of is that they are married and he might actually win and it’s not that her prideful words as a young woman were ever meant to be like _that_ anyway but she can’t stop the thought, and they could have had this, this dream of—

She kisses him. 

She doesn’t mean to, but one moment there is a blind panic and the next his mouth is against hers and she can taste the salt of exertion on his lips, feel the tangle of his hair around her fingers as she pulls him closer, hears him moan as her tongue sweeps into his mouth. Her body arches and a frustrated whine escapes her as she realises that they are still clothed, still—

Shit. 

He must feel her freeze, because he scrambles off her so quickly her fingers are still in his hair and it yanks his head sidewise as he stands. For a moment the look in his eyes could incinerate her, a jumbled mix of heat and longing she shouldn’t (can’t) trust, but it is only for a moment before he regains control, gains a veneer of indifference that merely feels awful in a different way.

“That’s a new one,” he says, and _gods_ his expression is neutral but his voice is still ragged, “though probably difficult on the battlefield. Helmets would get in the way.”

He offers her a hand to stand, and she knows that he is trying to be nice, that good manners would have him offering any opponent the same thing, but the idea of touching him, his calloused hand against hers, is unbearable in that moment. She waves him away and stands.

“I believe that is enough for today,” she says, striding on unsteady legs to the edge of the yard to return her tourney sword to the rack.

She cannot bring herself to look back, too scared of what she’d see. 

***

Brienne does not see him for the rest of the day, and it’s not that she’s _avoiding_ him, really—it is a day their paths barely cross because she has a series of meetings and he’s patrolling the far side of Winterfell between training sessions, but on another day (a day where she had not kissed him), it is more likely she’d have taken her midday meal in the hall instead of Lady Sansa’s solar, observing the recruits as he informed her of their training progress. But it’s not _avoidance_ that has her eating from a tray as she discusses the minor complaints of a minor lord, it is simply that there are so many and so little time.

(It is even true, for the most part, for she’s honest even with herself. But it’s not the _complete_ truth, because every time her mind drifts from the task at hand—and it is more frequently than usual, and more frequently than makes her truly productive—it is to remember the salty taste of his lips and the brush of his beard against her skin and the burning _want_ , to remember the way it had felt like the first time she’d picked up the sword and every time since, that sense of rightness. But even in her thoughts the memory quickly morphs, until she is remembering the pain in his eyes as he held himself apart, the rawness seeping out in the brief moment he waited for her to react, the way he adjusted his posture and his response and the yearning _need_ so that it was more aligned with hers, and it makes her sad but more than that it makes her _angry_ , because she’d spent enough time in the vicinity of Lannisters to recognise a defense when she sees one, and even if they are never… _that_ , he shouldn’t have to do _this_.)

So she’s not avoiding him, at least actively, but she’s not certain whether he would say the same and if he is than perhaps that’s for the best. If she sees him now, she’s not certain she will be able to keep her equanimity. 

She is still not avoiding him when the evening meal arrives, and she even braves the Great Hall. (That she knows him to be on the other side of Winterfell for another half hour is entirely irrelevant.) She sits with Pod instead, and the normalcy of it centres the world that she’d knocked askew, and by the end of the meal the heavy ache in her chest has abated. As she’s leaving the hall she spies Arya; the girl had been with Jaime that afternoon, attempting to teach stealth to a handful of young men, and so she expects Jaime to be almost immediately behind. He’s not, and Arya crosses the room to speak with her.

“We’d have better luck with a herd of aurochs,” she says cheerfully. “Ser Jaime was quite ready to despair of them all.”

Brienne tries to hide a small smile. 

“They can’t all have been awful.” 

“We had one of the half-deaf hounds guarding a stone and not one of them managed to get past her. One of them _tripped_ over the poor thing.”

“Ah. Well, perhaps they will improve with practice,” Brienne says, her eyes on the doors to the hall. “If you see Ser Jaime after I’ve gone, could you tell him I will be with your sister until late this evening? We will have to reschedule our plans.”

Arya cocks her head.

“Strange,” she muses, in a way that means she knows far more than she is letting on. “Ser Jaime went to Winter Town for a drink this evening. I told him there was perfectly serviceable alcohol here, but...”

“He must have forgotten,” Brienne says weakly. “He’s been quite busy these last few days, we both have. An evening away from his duties will no doubt be welcomed. Have a good night, Arya.”

Brienne leaves the hall with more haste than she had intended, trying not to blush. It is a _relief_ that he will not be waiting for her in their rooms as he usually is, for her plans with Lady Sansa really will take hours. And if she lingers in Sansa’s solar when they are done, there is no harm—they are friends, at least she believes so, and they do not have time enough together as it is. They talk and laugh and share a glass of Dornish wine, and it is a good evening. 

Still, when she does eventually return to her quarters, she is unsurprised that Jaime has yet to return from the town. She retreats to her bedchambers and climbs into bed, blowing out the candle at her bedside, but sleep eludes her and she is still awake when he does return, a too-loud attempt at stealth a sign that he’d drunk more than usual, and she thinks she ought to go to him and explain… _this_ , though she hardly understands it herself. It would be the right thing to do.

(She stays in bed, and it is only when silence comes from his chambers that sleep comes.)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The average chapter length of this story has been about ~3300 words, and all were in the 3-3.5K range. I thought this chapter, because of its content, would be shorter. It... was not. Even when I cut the final scene much earlier than planned. And I'm still not certain that I managed to actually convey what I was hoping to convey, so the real test is whether you all understand this or wonder whether there's been some Pod People.

She had kissed him. It’s his first thought upon waking, sunlight through the small window telling him it well past the time he rises for their training, and it is quickly followed by the realisation that he is getting too old to be drinking like that. His stomach pitches and his mouth is dry, though he’s been spared an aching head. He’d not gone with the intention of drinking himself into a stupor, and he’d imbibed too much but stopped short of _that_ at least, but he had been unable to bear the thought of facing her.

He’d imagined, in the furthest recesses of his heart, that she might one day kiss him again. Had not _believed_ it, but the hope was ever-present, buried deep—she would need to convince others of their marriage once more, or she would be swept away by the rush of a fight, or any number of fantasies he’d allowed himself to harbour. But in none of them was he left with a bitter taste in his mouth (he would like to blame for the alcohol for that as well, but he’s not a fool) and a wish to take it back.

Oh, she’d been as glorious as she ever was, all strength and skill, her face red with exertion and sweat on her brow, the true image of the Warrior, and he had loved her as he always did, with the immutable certainty of the ocean and the tides and the cycle of the moon. Untouchable. And then she had kissed him, soft and wanton and so _certain_ , her tongue and her hands and movements of her body so familiar that for a moment… for a moment, it had been true.

She had frozen then, and his lurching stomach propels him from the bed and towards the chamber pot at the memory. He breathes heavily, his head hung over the empty pot, the nausea abating, remembering the panic in her wild blue eyes, the slightly parted mouth as she struggled for something to say, the desperate clawing need he’d had to _fix_ this, somehow fix this, glib words and her retreat and…

He wishes he could take it back, every single time he had imagined her kissing him, because the truth of it is terrible.

On another day, he might have been able to convince himself this self-pitying melancholy is merely the last remnants of the alcohol, but the truth of it is that he’s tired. He’s tired of lying and he’s tired of pretending, even to himself, that he is a better man than he is. Tired of hoping in vain, and tired of waiting for the inevitable end. He knows the truth with decimate the trust they have rebuilt, but there will be no secrets between them; he can offer her that, at least.

He'd believed it as much as anybody. More, perhaps. That he was a good man, that he had done the right thing, had allowed himself to… He has dishonoured her in many ways, has hurt her in more, but he owes her the truth, even if he’d allowed himself to believe the lies.

(It is, he will acknowledge, possible that the drink has rendered him unnecessarily dramatic about the whole thing, but he’s about to destroy the life he’s spent the last half-year trying to deserve and so the reaction seems entirely fair.)

He leaves his bedchambers and finds a hastily scrawled note on the table, explaining that a pressing matter had arisen but she would see him at midday as planned, to discuss the stocking of the armory now their recruits are branching away from only swords and bows, and she apologised for missing their training. It seems an unlikely coincidence, but meeting in the training yard would be a disaster for so many reasons right now, so he’s grateful for the kindness in the small lie.

There’s not much of his in the shared space of their apartment; he had neither brought nor accumulated much and they both have a tendency towards a soldier’s neatness, and the few things scattered should go to whoever takes his position. (It is not that he wants to leave, but he cannot imagine an outcome that does not see him banished from Winterfell and her presence, sent south to be badgered and used like a game piece. Perhaps he’ll head for The Wall instead, what is left of it, because if he’s going to be a miserable cunt he’d rather be doing an honest day’s work while he is.) His private chambers will take longer, though perhaps not more than a quarter hour if he is efficient. There’s an inn a half day’s journey, shorter if he is riding alone; if they speak at midday, he should be able to make it before nightfall. He wonders, briefly, what to do with the commissioned armour he knows is almost complete—perhaps he will ask for the vambraces now, for he knows they are done, and offer the rest to Winterfell’s armories, or request that it be sent wherever he heads when it is done.

If he did not have duties this morn, he would spend the time making arrangements and saying his farewells. Pod deserves an explanation, and he’s fairly certain that Arya will miss having someone to needle, and there are servants and residents and recruits of Winterfell he does not wish to part from without some fond words, because they have made his time here so much better than it had any right to be. And he will, even if it delays him, speak with Sansa Stark before he goes—he wants her assurance that she will not blame Brienne for whatever pieces of the truth come to light, doesn’t want to cost Brienne the position she holds simply because of their association. But he does have duties, and those must come first.

It is not a particularly challenging morning—there’s training and then some juggling of the guard schedule that Jaime takes on because Brienne is absent, and there’s a hum of excitement Jaime does not have time to track the source of—but it goes by quickly, and he heads back to their quarters for the midday discussion, not yet certain how to raise the topic of their kiss; he is, oddly, certain that she will be there, honourable as she is, and is surprised that she had not arrived before him.

He does not have long to wait though, for she arrives, looking so harried that he cannot attribute it to the kiss alone. There’s a dark smudge on her chin that he gestures to, and she wipes it away with an irritated scowl.

“Fire,” she explains. “The settlement about an hour east, last night. It swept through the smithy and all half-dozen houses in the middle of the night. They arrived shortly after dawn with the injured, we’ve been scrambling to treat them and find a place to put them up.”

“You could have woken me,” Jaime says, watching her gathering her outerwear.

“You had other duties. It was under control.”

“Was?”

She pauses.

“Some people saw a figure, and the blacksmith swears the forge was cold when he went to bed. It’s likely just the fear, but I’m going to ride out and have a look. We’ll have to work on the armory assessment tomorrow.”

“I’ll ride out with you,” he says. He sees the opportunity to speak with her, but the louder and more selfish part of him is simply eager to do something _challenging_. “It’s an hour each way, we’ll have time to discuss it. And I could do with a ride and fresh air before the walls of Winterfell drive me mad.”

“You went to town last night,” she says, the only acknowledgement of the previous day, the only hint this is unusual, quickly brushed over. She shrugs on her cloak, fastening it with calm efficiency. “I’ll be leaving on the hour. If you can’t make arrangements by then, you can meet me on the road.”

***

He does meet her in the courtyard in time, and the ride east is… pleasant. Their focus is discussing whether to request more war hammers or morningstars first, whether they require more shields and a wider sizing of plate, and since neither of them is particularly wedded to one answer over the other it is more of a weighing of options than a debate. There is no mention of the day before, and Brienne wonders if he intends to simply not acknowledge it at all, like a vaguely unpleasant pebble in one’s boot, to be shaken out and forgotten at the earliest convenience.

The conversation slows down and then dies as they approach the settlement, or what remains of it—some of the half dozen homes are still smoldering as they threaten to collapse while others already have, and the stone of the blacksmith’s forge is black with soot. The fire had burnt hot and it had burnt fast, and it is a mercy that there were no deaths. Jaime gives a startled exhale, and Brienne is less than certain this was accidental given the intensity.

“I’ll hitch the horses,” he says.

She nods and dismounts, casting her eyes over the buildings to assess any immediate threats. Seeing none, she hands the reins to Jaime and moves towards the first home, or what remains of it—located nearest the forge, it is by far the worst damaged, with little more than a still-standing hearth and the last remnants of a wall rising above the solid stone foundation. It had been a single room building, and other than a large pot misshapen by the heat, there is very little identifiable amongst the wreckage. In the adjacent building she hears Jaime moving around, and looks up instinctively; there are no walls standing there either, and she sees him crouch down in what was once a corner, a scowl on his face as he shifts some debris. Whatever it is he finds is small, and he wipes it against the sleeve of his tunic as if to see it better before tucking it away. She opens her mouth, half-ready to ask him, but says nothing.

The other homes are less damaged, but still beyond repair, and fail to be any more illuminating than the first one. The precariousness of the walls and the residual heat means they need to focus their attentions on their careful picking, and it is some time later when they are done and find themselves in the blacksmith’s forge, the ostensible source of the fire. Being made of stone, it is the only building that might be saved.

“Anything?”

It’s a terse question, but she understands—after years of war, they are living in peacetime and seeing the complete devastation of this is… not more, but different. Combined with the physical exertion and frustration at finding no answers (and the poor sleep the night before, a detail she is trying very hard to forget), terse is the politest word for how she herself is feeling.

“No,” she says. “We’ll move to the perimeter. What was it you…?”

She gestures towards the first home he’d investigated, and he looks chagrined as he pulls the item from a pouch.

“A pendant,” he says. “I’m not sure how it escaped the flames, but it was beneath the debris. There’s nothing else to be saved, but…”

“That’s kind,” she says, because it is. She used to believe that being a good person meant infallible morality, a sense of righteousness, a grand quest, but more and more she thinks it is simply this, a series of never-ending choices and actions to make the world a little easier for someone.

He snorts.

“Yes, a three copper trinket will surely help rebuild an entire life.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Dismiss any good you have done.”

An arched eyebrow.

“Is that what I’m doing?”

She wants to strangle him. She’d almost rather have the arrogance than this, for at least that is easily dismissed as false bravado.

“You know you are,” she says, not in the mood to coddle. Not that he had ever appreciated her attempts, because nobody sees Jaime’s flaws as much as Jaime himself. “It’s not particularly becoming.”

“Ahh, yes,” he says, the dryness of his tone almost caustic. “I should strive to be more _becoming_. That will atone for all I’ve done.”

“You’re a good man, Jaime,” she snaps. “But nothing I say will convince you, so I don’t know why I bother.”

“Neither do I.”

And it is the resignation in his tone that pushes her. They are alone, probably the only people for miles. They had kissed and then leapt away from it as if the mere thought might burn them. They were _married_ , at least for some definition of married that is more focused on words in front of the gods than actions.

“Perhaps I am hoping that one day you will believe it,” she says, trying to bite back the anger boiling in her veins. “You’re always so determined to die because you are not good enough to live. Not when you lost your hand, not—not when you went to Cersei.”

It’s the first time she's said the woman’s name between them since his return north, and he recoils.

“Well, I’ve yet to see why I should,” he retorts, his jaw clenching. “If you knew half of what I’d done—”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. You’re so quick to defend me, to repeat back all that _utter horseshit_ about how I nobly rode south from the arms of the woman I love—”

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

“I _**do**_!”

If there had been wildlife nearby, the shout would have startled them from their perches, but all there is left is the eerie silence of the aftermath of fire. He sighs.

“I wish you wouldn’t…” He scrubs at his face and Brienne would feel sympathetic, does even, but there’s a rising panic battering at her defenses; she might have initiated this conversation, but she doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want confirmation of what she already knows, has always known. “I wish you would not defend me,” he says. “‘Man seeks redemption by ending the tyrant he upheld’ makes a great tale, but it is rarely so simple as that.”

Somehow, it doesn’t hurt as much as she expected; she’s tired, more than anything, tired of pretending and tired of lying and tired of telling herself that she was wrong.

“I know,” she says. “Did you really think I didn’t?”

“Nobody knows. Tyrion made sure of that.”

Stubborn fool.

“I told you the first day you came home, I know you.” She hates herself for that _home_ , hates that they will have this conversation and her blasted tongue is revealing too much before they even begin. “Just because I knew what the outcome would be, you really think I didn’t realise you would save her if you could? That’s what you _do_ , Jaime. You save and you save and you save, and then you tell yourself that it doesn’t really _count_ because you didn’t save enough.”

She sees he is startled and opens his mouth to argue, but she is far from done.

“You think I didn’t have to watch every word I said? Do you have any idea how many times I had to assure people that you had gone south ‘in pursuit of your sister’s death’, because I wouldn’t lie but I couldn’t tell the whole truth and that was the best I could do? How many times I looked the woman I was sworn to in the eye and bluffed to keep her from sending someone after you? Probably me, if we’re honest, and we both know I’d have done it. I fucking _knew_ , Jaime, and I still let you go off to your death because you’d never have been happy if you didn’t try.”

“Brienne…” her name is little more than a breathy exhale, and she feels tears prick at her eyes.

“You think I didn’t agonise about what would happen to Sansa if I was wrong? You think I didn’t agonise about what would happen to _you_? The woman tried to have you killed and you still had to save her.”

“I had to stop her,” he says. “More than anything, I had to stop her.”

His voice cracks, and so does Brienne’s control. Tears slip from her eyes, a heavy weight in her chest threatening to turn into sobs.

“I know,” she manages to say.

He reaches out as if to take her hand and gets only halfway before letting it drop to his side.

“I wasn’t certain… Even to the end I thought I could save her. Not that I had ever before—not from the crush of our father’s disapproval, not from a marriage to a man who treated her as nothing more than second to a ghost—but I thought that this time would be different. I couldn’t… she had to face what she’d done, but she didn’t have to die.” His lips twist. “And then I saw her in that throne room, ready to burn the whole city to keep it out of Daenerys’s hands. And she was—she wasn’t _mad_ , Brienne. I could understand if she was mad. But she knew _precisely_ what she was doing, and she thought—she thought I would agree.” He shakes his head, and he’s crying as much as she is and she wants, wants so badly, to reach out to him. “I should have known she would never give up the throne, not for her life, not for an unborn child. But I had to try, I had to… I had to believe that mercy might win, just once. I might not have, before you. I’d left those dreams behind, told myself that I was being _realistic_. And then…”

He looks so helpless, and this is why she didn’t want to know. She can’t know and not love him, and yet it changes nothing.

“She came to me,” he confesses. “She wanted me to hold her while the city burnt around us, while the innocents burnt around us. And for a moment, I could see that I might have done it once and I hated that man, more than I ever hated Robert or Aerys or Ned Fucking Stark. So I slipped a dagger between her ribs, as merciful as I could make it, and I held her while she died. She was so _surprised_ , Brienne. I spent so many years failing to protect her, so many years being the only one that cared enough to try, and in the end...”

She’s not certain who reaches out first, but he is wrapped in her arms, his tears hot against her neck and she’s weeping too, for it is so entirely unfair.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, his hair surprisingly soft against her lips. “Not that… not that she is dead. She has inflicted far too much evil upon people I love to mourn her. I am sorry that you have borne it, Jaime. Sorry you have seen people rejoice, sorry that to save your life you had to deny a part of it. But I am not sorry that she’s gone, and I’m not sorry you lived.”

He chuckles, a bitter, dark sound, and his hand reaches up to grasp her wrist like a lifeline.

“I’m not either,” he confesses. “I ought to be. I was complicit, I should have…”

“Jaime,” she says gently, pulling away so she can meet his eyes. His expressive, wounded eyes. “Everything you have done has been to protect someone or something. And sometimes, _many_ times, it was the wrong thing, the wrong person. I won’t lie to you about that. But there is good in you, when you trust yourself. And you were never… you were never cruel in it. Ruthless, yes, but not cruel.”

“What does it matter, when the outcome is the same?”

“It matters to _me_ ,” she whispers, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. “I could never have loved a cruel man, but a flawed one… We are all flawed.”

“Brienne,” he says, and there is so much _hope_ in his eyes that it hurts, and she has to stop this, has to—

“Perhaps this was the best we could have hoped for,” she says. “We were never… we could never have— you are alive and free, and that is more than I dared to hope.”

“I hoped for more,” he says, and he’s so _certain_ but his eyes are pleading and she can’t breathe. “You hoped for more.”

“Don’t. Don’t... “ she’s trying to find the words and she’s trying to breathe and she’s…. “I spent years, _years_ not knowing whether I would see you again, whether we would meet across a battlefield, whether I would even hear if you died. I can’t do that.”

“We’re on the same side now.”

“For how long?”

“As long as you want me,” he says.

He doesn’t see it. Can’t see it. He loves with such devotion that he can’t see…

“And when we disagree?”

“You asked me to disagree with you.”

“Yes, but… when we disagree and there is no compromise. When we must both do what we believe is right and find ourselves on opposing sides once more, what then?”

“We won’t.”

“History says we will.”

“Fuck history! If you wish to swear—”

“No! Don’t— I cannot take your freedom to choose. I won’t. But I can’t… I can’t want more than this, Jaime.”

He nods, and his expression is resignation and anger and something else she can’t put her finger on.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“I… no. If you feel you should, we can… we can talk to Lady Sansa. It is your choice, of course, but no. You’re… I won’t ask you to…” Her face is _burning_ as the words tumble from her mouth, a muddled mess as she tries to explain that she would never ask him to leave Winterfell, that it is his home and his position and she is _glad_ he is there even if it hurts to see him some days, and she can’t breathe. She pulls away, already missing the warmth of his body. “I need—I need air.”

***

She strides from the forge, desperate to get away, away from him and away from the truth and away from this sudden choking grief that none of this matters, none of it had ever truly mattered because she can’t… she can’t fix this even if she wanted to, and it’s… she needs to get away. So she moves towards the horses, grabbing a waterskin from her saddlebag and taking a swig, closing her eyes as the cool water soothes her throat.

She had thought the truth of Cersei would be the worst of it. No matter how much she had loved him, how she had begged him to stay, it had never truly been an option; there was no possible outcome that would end well. If he had stayed and Cersei had lost, he would have wondered if he could have saved her; if he had stayed and Cersei had won, he would have only delayed their confrontation. So she had let him go and hoped that he remembered that he was a good man, and he _had_ , he had been willing to die to do the right thing but he _didn’t_ , and maybe that was the best they ever could have hoped for, even if it had hurt her to do it, to let him go and know that he was more likely than die than not. She had thought that would be the worst of it, and it is a scar that she has long grown accustomed to ignoring.

It was not the worst of it.

No, the worst of it is that he’s here now. And they are not what they were, they can’t be what they were, she can’t demand his allegiance above his own moral code and one day—one day soon, if history is any indication—they will find themselves on opposing sides once more. They can’t be what they were, but they were _something_ , friends perhaps, and it had been enough. Or not enough, but better than to have nothing. Because as aggravating as she finds him, as stubborn and honorable and obnoxious as she finds him, he is still Jaime and she would rather have these stolen moments than not. And none of it matters, because however much he had loved her—and he had, she knows him well enough to have never doubted _that_ —he is always going to leave. He’s always going to be on the other side eventually, looking at her with soft eyes as they both hope that this is as far as it goes, that they will not have to meet over steel and blood, and she can’t do it.

Or maybe that is all a convenient excuse, a neat little box so she can say that it is his problem, or really that it is _neither_ of theirs problem, it cannot be changed, it is simply how the world works. But that doesn’t make it _untrue_ , and she has earned the right to a little cowardice. But only a little, because duty must come first.

Splashing a little water against her face to soothe her tear-burnt eyes, she breathes deeply and heads back. They will finish their examination and return to Winterfell, and life will resume. And perhaps he will choose to leave sooner rather than later, and perhaps he will stay for awhile, and perhaps one day she will think of him and only their friendship will come to mind, but it will be fine whatever comes to pass.

She is approaching the forge when a glint in the grass has her veering from the path. It’s only a few steps from the most damaged home, the grass blackened and burnt from the heat, and she wonders at first whether this will be another pendant or trinket to be brought home. She crouches and sees the cause of the glint; it’s a small golden button, and as she picks it up and turns it over, her heart sinks.

Etched onto its front is a tiny lion.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, every time I think I will be back to weekly updates, real life kicks me in the arse. I almost certainly won't be posting chapter 17 next week, though a fair chunk of it is already written--I'm hoping to post a modern AU nonsense fic for JB Week, and this plot-heavy chapter is a better place to wait that the next one. I'll be doing my best to post 17 and 18 close together, because... 17 is probably rock bottom. Well, no, it's definitely rock bottom. It's just deeeeeep bedrock. 
> 
> The visit Arya mentions was ficced for an ask meme [here](https://firesign23.tumblr.com/post/186800110592/before-the-beginning-please), if anyone is interested.

Jaime had heard once—though he cannot imagine where, because it was certainly not from any member of his family—that tears could clarify the mind, but he simply feels hollowed out. All the grief and secrecy had spilled forth, the tiny of kernel of hope falling with them, and there is nothing left but the aching of his limbs and the lingering heat on his face, a numb sort of exhaustion infusing his body. He’s not certain what else he _could_ feel, under the circumstances, so he slumps against the wall of the forge and closes his eyes, the scent of the fire pervading his senses, and tries to think of nothing at all.

He eventually hears her return, a quick clomping of boots on hard-packed dirt, and then there’s a shifting in the light against his closed eyelids as she stands in the doorway to the forge; he looks up to find a pinched expression on her face.

“Brienne?”

“Who knew you went to Wintertown last night?”

It’s a strange question, made stranger by the earnest concern in her voice.

“Any number of people,” he says, scrambling to his feet and moving towards her. “I spoke with Arya as the men were leaving, the guards at the gate, someone in the yards. Anybody who saw me at the inn. Why?”

She holds out her hand, and he is close enough to see the button resting on her palm.

“Is that…”

“A Lannister lion? It would appear so. I found it in the grass just outside.”

“Why—” but the answer hits him, and says flatly, “Shit.”

“Shit,” Brienne agrees. “I’d rather hoped we were past this.”

“It’s not mine.”

The look she gives him is very good at calling him an idiot, even if her words do not.

“Whoever left this must have known you had left Winterfell last night, but clearly does not know you well. Kingslayer, Lannister, _fire_? It’s all unearned reputation—”

“Not entirely unearned.”

“Unearned,” she repeats firmly.

He is tempted to point out that is a bold assertion from a woman so certain they will be enemies soon enough, but as much as it had stung to hear it, he knows it equally pained her to say it. He has no wish to hurt her, so he simply shakes his head.

“Earned or unearned, the point remains that someone hopes to use my reputation for…” he sighs, “purposes that remain unclear. They have failed because you have risked your position to lie, but it was never more than a temporary solution.”

“Pardon?”

If she cannot see the obvious it is because she does not wish to, her stubbornness blinding her; it is a luxury they can ill-afford under the circumstances.

“We must tell Lady Sansa, and immediately,” he says. “This will only continue to escalate, and there is one obvious element of my reputation that has so far been untouched.”

“You think they will attack Sansa.”

She’s doubtful, he can see it on her face, but the sort of doubtful that is rooted in denial, because if it wasn’t she would not have reached the conclusion so quickly.

“I’m certainly not willing to risk her life on the assumption that I’m wrong.”

The statement hits its mark, because her eyes flash with anger.

“You think I would endanger her?”

“No, _never_ ,” Jaime says, and means it. She is fierce in her loyalty, ready to die for what she believes. “And that is precisely why she must be told. We will tell her of the button, and then I will tell her I heard rumours when I was in Wintertown last night that the bandits spoke of—”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Come now, wench. You wouldn’t have had need to lie if it weren’t for me, I’m not going to have you risk your neck for it now that it has come to a head.”

“So you’ll risk your own life for a lie you did not choose to tell?” she snaps. “Absolutely not. I made my choices, and I’ll answer for them.”

He would expect no less, but he will not give on this.

“A good way to get us both killed, and possibly Arya mistrusted as well. Which will certainly keep our lady safe.”

“Do not try to argue honour and duty with me, ser,” she spits, her low voice near-growl.

“I know, I know,” he drawls, the unkind words bitter even as he says them, “Ser Brienne is above reproach—”

“Fuck off. You mean to goad me into anger. You will not provoke me.”

An old, half-remembered conversation drifts to mind, and despite the circumstances he barely suppresses the chuckle that accompanies it. They have come so far, in many ways; there is noone he would rather fight beside, noone he would so easily entrust with his deepest secrets. But in some ways they have not changed at all—she is still stubborn and honorable, and he… well, he is still willing to do anything to protect those he loves.

“Well, neither of us can do a thing from here,” he says. “If there is nothing else, we ought to return to Winterfell.”

“I want to look outside,” Brienne says. “This was left with intention, but it is possible it was not the only thing left behind.”

She is proven right; in the grass just outside the range of the fire they find a bootprint in the dirt, perfectly Jaime’s size, and a small box with flint and tinder.

“Not at all subtle, are they?” she remarks, pocketing the box and scuffing the print with her own boot heel.

Near the treeline, snapped twigs and flattened grass suggest that someone had crouched down to watch the settlement. Or, more likely, the fire. The bootprints there, obscured though they are, are clearly too small to have been Jaime.

“I think we’ve seen enough,” he says, casting an eye at the sky. “We’ll lose the light if we stay longer.”

***

They push the horses on their return, not at a gallop but certainly not at an easy pace. There is no evidence that any threat on Sansa is imminent—it would be foolish if it were, in truth, with Jaime known to be elsewhere, but it is not sense that spurs either of them forward. By some unspoken agreement, they do not quarrel or speak of the secrets confessed, an ache set aside in the face of more pressing matters. If this is to be their last moments, he is grateful it will be spent in friendship.

Brienne questions him as they ride, and though she does not mention Cersei by name, this is the first time she presses him for more information on the threats that he had faced in King’s Landing, and he supposes there is some relief in that honesty. Not that there is very much to tell—it had mostly been minor lords throwing their daughters at him in increasingly absurd ways, complete with heaving bosoms and sly insinuations that rulers had come and gone so easily of late—he’d given more than a few tongue lashings at the latter, reminding the poor girl being used as a pawn that the current ruler in the south was, in fact, his brother and only living relative; Brienne’s lips thin at that, a sympathetic impulse he knows she is curbing.

“More than one assured me that there would be no need for that to remain the case,” he says, playing it as a joke. “For some reason, when I mentioned that the rightful king had been brought back but the gods didn’t seem particularly interested in Lannisters, they seemed put out.”

Brienne laughs, just a little, though they both know it is not particularly funny.

“There was no need to be cruel to the girls, Jaime,” she scolds. “Many a girl dreams of having a tamed lion for a pet, if only to frighten off worse beasts.”

“Much more sensible to ask for a sword,” Jaime replies. “But the girls were perfectly fine. I can’t imagine any of them _wished_ to marry me. Brother of the Steward, perhaps, and I’m sure the Lannister name still carried some appeal though I can’t imagine why. But a crippled man twice their age? Hardly the most desirable of husbands.”

Brienne does snort then.

“That’s quite a thing to say to your wife,” she points out.

It is, he thinks, the first time she has referred to herself as such. Certainly the first without some ulterior motive or pretense behind the word. The aching hollowness flares again, quickly tempered.

“I’m sure you had me for pity,” he laughs, sounding almost sincere even to himself. “Or perhaps misplaced duty.”

He’s fairly certain he hears her mutter “Not misplaced,” as she nudges her horse ahead, the path they are on briefly narrowing so it is impossible to ride two abreast, but when it widens again the conversation is done. And perhaps it was only wishful thinking.

“What of the attempts on your life, then?” she asks.

“Assaults on the street—thrice, and I know I’ve not got my sword hand, but I am still offended by their estimations of what it would take to overwhelm me. Enough so that I had wondered if it was meant as a warning rather than a serious attempt. And ground glass in my food once, but the shards were visible.”

“How can you be so unconcerned?” she asks sharply, and Jaime shrugs. He can’t particularly explain the apathy he had felt towards his life those first few weeks, and the later attempts had failed and were not worth dwelling on now.

“Tyrion learnt who was behind the glass, at least—a lord who had no daughters to approach me and so had come himself, to tell me that he would support my claim to the throne over an absent king. I laughed in his face and told him the only way to get me anywhere near that thing was as a corpse. He took it rather more literally than I would have liked, but Tyrion exiled him and that was that. Even the nubile young ladies lessened, and Tyrion and Sansa plotted our betrothal shortly after that.”

“And there were no…”

“I doubt this has anything to do with some sort of delayed revenge. I was a convenient cyvasse piece, nothing more, and I’ve been removed from the board. People do not care for pawns that fail to comply.”

“Then why target you?”

“I don’t know. To sow dissent among the northerners, to throw doubt on your loyalties? It hardly seems like the most thought-through plan, to be honest, but if the point was to cause a rift between the Steward and her Lady Commander, it seems to have worked.”

He regrets poking at it, does not want her to think he is anything but accepting of her choice, but she frowns slightly and then continues the conversation as if he’d said nothing at all. It will have to be enough. They go through the names of men who had sent their daughters, who might have sent men after him, discussing their allegiances and motivations. It feels unnecessary, but it makes the time pass without the need to address other matters. Sooner than expected, the walls of Winterfell are visible in the gathering dusk; Brienne shifts her horse into a gallop, as if only now realising the potential danger Sansa is in without her presence, and Jaime follows her lead.

The guard on duty does not attempt to stop them, and as Brienne swings from the saddle she sends a glare at the direction of the gate.

“Two men with swords approach, and no questions? Unacceptable.”

“He recognised you,” Jaime says. “Double the guards if it will make you feel better, but don’t scowl while you do it. Your face might freeze like that, and you’ll never find yourself a second husband.”

She spins to face him, her eyes narrowed, and suddenly the joke fails to seem so funny.

“Sansa won’t kill you,” she whispers sharply, “though I might. Shut your mouth, which I’m sure will pain you immensely, and take the horses. I will meet you in the stables. I need to speak with Arya.”

And, shoving her reins into his hands, she stalks off. He watches her for longer than he cares to admit, until her beacon of blonde hair is swallowed by a shadowed doorway, and hopes she will understand that what he is about to do is because they are on the same side, not in opposition.

He will do it either way, because it is the right thing to do.

***

Brienne moves through Winterfell in search of Arya; the young woman must be warned before Sansa is told the truth, or an approximation of it. They will do their best to keep her from it, for her sake and for Sansa’s, but it is better she is warned than not. Not finding her in the most obvious places, Brienne heads for Arya’s quarters. Knocking on the door, she tries not to smile as she hears a flurry of activity from the other side. When the door opens a moment later, Arya’s hair is still askew.

“Tell Gendry he is welcome back later,” Brienne says, walking through the opened doorway without waiting for an invitation.

Arya shows no shame, but the young blacksmith does as he practically _bolts_ out of the room.

“A man of great bravery,” Brienne remarks to the now-shut door, and Arya glares.

“What do you need?”

“You’ve resolved the marriage dilemma, then?”

Arya practically pouts.

“I haven’t had a chance to ask. And you’re clearly avoiding the question.”

She is not entirely wrong; Brienne pulls the button out and drops it into Arya’s now-extended hand.

“This was found at the site of the fire,” she says.

Arya looks at the button, expression blank.

“Where did they even find something this hideous?”

Brienne laughs despite herself.

“I’m sure there are many in existence, but none in Ser Jaime’s wardrobe.”

“No,” Arya agrees. “Have you seen his new armour?”

Brienne has a vague recollection he had commissioned some, but knows little else; she’s not certain what this has to do with the button.

“Afraid not,” she says, and Arya actually laughs.

“No one would mark him a Lannister in it,” is all she says. “What are we to do about this?”

“We cannot risk the next attempt to be on Sansa’s life. I will tell her the truth and face the consequences, but you will need to be vigilant. I cannot bear the thought—” she feels the words catch in her throat, the true scope of the situation hitting her. “I swore to your mother I would keep you both safe, and that has not been anything like I expected. But I love you both, and the idea that my choices might endanger either of you… be vigilant, I beg you.”

Arya shakes her head.

“Tell Sansa I was with Ser Jaime last night. Gendry will agree, and it is near enough the truth,” she says. “Sansa will be furious, but she trusts you.”

“And what of J—Ser Jaime?”

“She does not like him,” Arya says. “But presented with proof he was not behind the fire, she will take his side. She is not vindictive or senseless. You might wish to assign Ser Jaime duties far from her sight for a moon or so, but of all the ways this could be discovered…”

Brienne is not certain whether she believes Arya or merely wishes to, but it is the first spark of hope she has felt over the situation. It will be well. Arya is examining the button again, flipping it between her fingers with a contemplative look on her face.

“It makes little sense,” the girl says.

“I’ve asked him whether it might have to do with his time in King’s Landing and he thinks not, but you were there. Is there anyone you can…?”

Arya shakes her head.

“He was awaiting trial most of the time I was there. He was…” she trails off, and Brienne is not certain whether she is looking for words or deciding whether to break a confidence. “I visited him in the cells when the letter came—”

“What letter?”

“A letter from the North vouching for him? I never saw it, but I presumed you had written it.”

“No,” Brienne says. She might have, if she had thought it would do good, but it would not have, not with their connection known. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

Arya waves it away. “It spoke of his serving during the Long Night, I doubt it tipped the scales. But when I saw him, he was… defeated.”

Brienne can imagine it all too well, his tears only a few hours earlier fresh in her mind. Jaime alone, nothing but the memory of his sister dying by his hand and his own self-recrimination to keep him company. She wishes, futilely, that she could have been there, for nobody deserved to be alone like that. _Jaime_ had not deserved to be alone like that. But she had had her duties and he had had his, and that will ever be the way of it. She might as well wish for winter to never come.

“I visited him several times,” Arya admits. “Even once his actions were deemed justified and he was no longer prisoner. He wouldn’t speak of what happened, but he…” she hesitates. “I cannot imagine his actions in that time would invoke such ire. He is not the man he once was.”

“No,” Brienne agrees. “In many ways, he is not.”

“If this will not end, we ought to end it,” Arya says, still flipping the button. “I’m not yet certain how, but seek me in the morning if Sansa has not sent you both to the dungeons.”

“I thought you were certain she would see sense?”

“She will,” Arya says easily. “Sooner or later.”

“A great comfort,” Brienne replies, but it will have to be enough. “I will see you in the morrow then.”

Certain that she has done what she can, Brienne takes her leave and heads towards the stables. She expects to find Jaime there, likely still brushing down the horses, but there is only an older man named Mick present.

“Ser,” he says, nodding. “Your saddlebags are just there.”

“Thank you,” she replies. “Have you seen Ser Jaime?”

“Reckon he’s still with Lady Sansa. She came along shortly after he brought the horses in, and he near enough _ran_ after her, tongue lolling out of his mouth like a mange-ridden cur chasing a bitch in heat.”

Brienne knows that Mick does not particularly care for Jaime, one of the few not won over by his kindness and charm, but the insinuation in his voice would be almost _funny_ if she wasn’t all too aware of the real reason the _great bloody idiot_ would be so eager to see the Lady of Winterfell. She had told him not to, not that he had even been inclined to listen before.

“Thank you,” Brienne repeats by rote, turning to hurry towards the door.

“Your bags, Ser Brienne!” calls Mick, and she feels her cheeks flush with embarrassment even as she veers to grab them.

Exiting the stables, she walks at a steady speed towards Lady Sansa’s solar—not so quick as to draw attention, but aware that every moment of delay is another moment Jaime could be throwing himself onto the altar of self-sacrifice. There was a time where she would have happily let him, but that was years in the past, and even then honour would not have allowed her to deny her own role; now the mere thought pains her, and the worst of it is that she knows that the Jaime of years past never would have done it, not for her, and now he will because he is loyal past the point of sense.

She tries to cling to Arya’s assertions that the truth will ultimately be accepted—not easily, perhaps, but the worst imaginings are nothing more than imaginings. Every footfall drives the assurance further from her though, replaced with Jaime executed with his own sword, long-delayed justice for Ned Stark though he is not to bear the brunt of _that_ , and the widow’s wail that would be her own. She imagines him held captive for years; he had not lost his edge the first time, but this would be different. She imagines standing before Lady Sansa and being told that she had failed, to choose, choose, _choose_ , swear and swear and live by words that are forever stagnant. She imagines and imagines and imagines, until she feels ready to burst from her own skin, ready to scratch and claw against a force less substantial than a wisp, ready and yet entirely unprepared for what she will face.

The corridor is poorly lit—if she survives this, she will demand more torches here until the danger to Sansa has passed, for shadows can hold so many secrets— and when she reaches the solar she nods to the man standing guard and knocks, though she’s not certain why; without waiting for a reply, she pushes open the door and steps inside. There’s a flurry of movement and her hand is on her sword before she realises that it is merely Jaime, spinning up from a chair and ready to draw his own sword before he sees that it is her.

“Ser,” he says, inclining his head stiffly as if they are merely acquaintances. It is so transparent an attempt to distance her that she is filled with an ornery urge to take all the responsibility. They stare at each other for a moment, daring the other to look away first.

“Well,” says Lady Sansa, her voice dry as she casts an unreadable look at Jaime, “she certainly _seems_ unaware.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in updating, as I've apologised before. It's another 4K chapter. The good news is that I have nearly 1K of the next chapter already written, so it won't be so long this time. Presuming, of course, there are any readers after this one.
> 
> Oh, and because I'm a flake and also wanted to post this and run and therefore forgot, but immense, immense thank yous to Luthien and everyone else who listened to my griping and patted my head and made me write this when I was contemplating changing my name and joining the circus instead. ♥

Jaime doesn’t particularly _wish_ to speak with Sansa, even if he knows he must warn her. There may or may not be a passing thought, when he catches her walking by the stables and says they must speak, that it would be so easy simply _not_ to; he’s spent years not caring for the wellbeing of others, or telling himself he does not care, and it would be the work of a moment to retreat to such a position. Say nothing, or fuck off anywhere else because this is not his problem, or lie and flatter and twist the truth into something more palatable. But as little as he wishes to speak with Sansa, he wishes to be that man a thousand times less. And he was never particularly good at it, even when he wanted to be, so speaking with her it is.

Sansa acquiesces, barely slowing down as she speaks with him, and they head towards her solar. There’s something in the set of her shoulders that unnerves him even before he can think of what lies ahead; he’s learnt to read her ever-shifting feelings about him in the moons he’s been north, always waiting for the weight of her judgment, always ready for it to go _wrong_ , and there’s a tension that is _about_ him but not directed _at_ him that he can identify but does not recognise. 

They stop at the great hall on the way to the solar, Sansa’s head bent low as she exchanges words with one of the women displaced by the fire, and Jaime uses the time to make a few inquiries and return the pendant he found to its rightful owner. When he’s done, Sansa is looking at him and the tension has shifted again, into something even less recognisable, and when she gestures for them to continue he moves quickly. The conversation needs to happen while Brienne is still occupied, and the longer they linger in the corridors the less likely it is he will succeed.

They do make it to the solar with no signs of his wife, and he spares a thought for the merciful Mother even if he doesn’t believe, and then Sansa closes the heavy door and checks behind a heavy wall hanging before turning to look at him.

“If this is about the fire,” she says, “I know you didn’t set it.”

He simply _stares_ at her, waiting, though he’s not entirely certain what for; it cannot be a jape, and the damage has been too real to be a test, but he doesn’t know what else it _could_ be, because he had contemplated several possibilities but none of them involved Sansa already knowing and he can feel the blade at his throat, ready to cut if he breathes too deep. 

The Lady of Winterfell motions towards a chair. Calm. Detached. “Take a seat, Ser Jaime.”

“I don’t believe I will,” he replies; sitting seems like a terrible idea if he needs to fight or flee, a tactical disadvantage he does not wish to experience. Sansa, for her part, merely takes her own seat, regal as a queen as she regards him from her chair, ready to pass judgment.

“You do not seem surprised by my accusation,” she says.

“There was evidence left to suggest Lannister involvement,” he replies. “I’m the only one I know of north of the Neck.”

“Here I thought you were of Tarth, Ser Jaime.”

One of Tommen’s kittens had been a brutal mouser, enjoyed the hunt so much that it would release the injured mouse simply so it could pounce again, and he sees that same coiled litheness in Sansa’s body. Jaime does not have time for these games, not when Brienne could join them any time.

“You call yourself Stark, and you are, but you’re a Tully like your mother as well,” he says. “Cat enjoyed knowing things and lording them over me.”

Sansa’s gaze is cool, unruffled. “My mother is the only reason you are alive, ser.”

“A fate I’m sure she would lament,” he says, because his first response is that _Brienne_ is the reason he lives, time and time again she is the reason, but he wants her as far from this conversation as he can manage.

“Certainly,” Sansa says. “If she were alive. Which she is not, courtesy of the Lannisters. But not courtesy of you. I’m quite tired of blaming people for the things they did not do.”

“There are many things I have done.”

She actually smiles at him; it is not a warm smile, but it does not feel like she is preparing to pounce either. 

“Many. But you did not murder my mother and brother, you did not end the Reynes of Castamere, and you did not set an entire settlement alight last night.” 

“How did you know?”

Sansa gestures to the chair he’d previously declined, and he takes it. Reluctantly, doubtfully, but he takes it. 

“One of the women saw a cloaked figure in the dark, one with a golden hand. It seemed odd that you would wear something so distinctive while committing such an act, _especially_ when I know full well you had it destroyed before you ever came back north. What the figure did not realise was the woman caught sight of his silhouette as well; our trip to the hall confirmed it was not you. The man was shorter, had no beard. But clearly someone wished for us to believe it was you, and as you were just at the site of the fire I presumed more had arisen.”

“Yes. Brienne—there was a bootprint, left with tinder. Very clear, my size. I obscured it before Brienne could see.”

“Are your feet so unusual a size that this worried you? It’s remarkable you noticed at all.”

He hears the challenge behind the words, daring him to reveal more than she has. Wonders whether she sees the implications of it, the direct threat it may hold for her, but he cannot say it yet; Brienne still holds the button that made it so clear to him, and he must convince her first. They will hardly stage an assassination in this moment, with a guard at the door and Jaime himself present. 

“The timing was suspicious—I went to town last night, returned quite late. Alone. I heard… I heard rumours, while I was at the inn, that when one of the wagons was attacked my name was mentioned.”

Sansa nods, and Jaime feels a flash of regret that Brienne’s suspicions—that Sansa knew of the accusations against Jaime, had chosen to keep them secret—were not entirely without merit. 

“Would you have told her?” he asks, wishes he could unask.

“Would you?” she returns. “If I had told her and she had chosen you, what was I to do?”

“Trust her judgment,” Jaime says, without hesitation. 

“As you so clearly have,” Sansa says, a point Jaime must concede with a nod even if it is untrue. “You act as if she could never be wrong.”

Jaime snorts. “Of course she can be wrong. She believes Galladon of Morne to be the greatest hero of legend. But not… If she came to me tomorrow and said that we must depose my brother, I would listen to her reasons, and agree with them by the end. She may not be infallible, but I’ve never known her to be unjust or needlessly hasty.”

There is silence, for a moment, and Sansa places her hands on the surface of her desk and looks at him. 

“And yet here we are,” she says. “Neither of us ready to tell her of this.”

“And yet here we are,” he agrees, trying not to let the relief that she _believes_ him show on his face. “Though we will have to tell her now, whether or not we would wish to and however angry she will be by the deception.”

“And why is that, Ser Jaime?”

“Because my presence in Winterfell is a problem for the moment, and the most straightforward solution is to remove myself until it is dealt with, for _your_ safety if nothing else.” He doesn’t know he’ll say it until he does, isn’t certain it’s even the best course of action. “It’s inconvenient, but she’ll recognise the necessity.”

“You’ll leave,” Sansa snaps, and her calm coolness is replaced so quickly with the feral defensiveness of the wolf that adorns her crest. “At least she has grown accustomed to the idea this time. I won’t expect red eyes over my breakfast.”

Self-loathing fills him, for a moment, because he can picture it only too well. But he cannot...

“Brienne understood why I left,” he says, because it seems safest, or safer than saying _I know, I know and I wish..._.

“She tells you that now, but I was there.”

“She understood. That doesn’t make it easier to bear.”

“There was no reason for her to _bear it_ , Ser. She was happy with you. I believed you to be happy with her—”

“I was,” he spits. “And if I were the man you believed me to be, I would still be happy with her. But I’m _not_ , because I’m not that man. I cannot weigh my happiness against the lives of an entire city and make the selfish choice. I cannot weight _her_ happiness against the lives of an entire city and make the selfish choice, however much I wish I could. And it was for naught, in the end, but I would do it again. Because if it comes down to being the man who holds her or being the man who deserves her, or tries to, I will choose the latter every time.” 

Sansa shifts in her seat, draws herself up to a fuller height, tiny movements he only reads because he has been taught to. “Pretty words mean nothing.”

“No,” he agrees. “But actions do.”

She looks at him again, taking him in with a level eye. He expects a scathing comment, a judgment, but eventually she folds her hands before her, neat and elegant and restrained.

“And you have truly told Brienne nothing of this?”

“Nothing,” he swears. He’d swear the sky was green if it kept her from this, but all he has are words. He attempts contrition, though he expects Sansa will see through it. It is not a state that comes naturally to him. “She will wish to double your guards when she learns of it, and if you can bear to take advice from me, I would allow it.”

“And why is that?”

“We both know my reputation,” he says. “Kingslayer. Queenslayer. There are very few ways I am of use beyond it, so if I am being used…”

Sansa nods, a tightly controlled inclination of her head, as she hears what he cannot quite bring himself to say. _Stewardslayer would be no far stretch._

“I will hear your advice,” she says, “though I do not promise to take it.”

Jaime has just begun to expand upon his concerns for her safety when there is a knock and the sound of the door opening; he stands and turns in one motion, hand on the pommel of his sword, ready to defend, but it is only Brienne. 

“Ser,” he says.

She is staring at him, and he does not need to be an expert at reading the minute expressions of her face to note the breathlessness, the barely-concealed fear at her lips, the battle-readiness in her eyes, or the way her hand flies to her own sword before allowing it to drop. They stand, for a moment, and say nothing; he wills her to understand, to agree, to play along because this is best, she might not like it but this is best. 

“Well,” says Lady Sansa, breaking the silence, “she certainly _seems_ unaware.”

***

Brienne can barely breathe, standing in Sansa’s solar, her husband and her lady both watching her, all the images that have assaulted her still echoing in her head. Death and captivity and loss, she’s going to lose so much, no matter what she will lose, she must… she knows she must do _something_ , but she is frozen as to what. 

“Ser,” says Jaime again, watching her even as he gestures behind him, “I came to speak with Lady Sansa about—”

“Please leave, Ser Jaime,” Sansa says, her voice cutting through his words and Brienne knows, _knows_ that whatever lies Jaime has given, she will not be told, that the dismissal is deliberate. 

Jaime knows it too, because his lips narrow and then he turns to bow to Sansa. “Very well, my lady. I will be in my quarters if I am required. Please do… keep my advice in mind. As I said, Ser Brienne is unaware of what I overheard.”

“Now, Ser Jaime.” 

The look he gives as he passes Brienne pleads with her to be careful, as if he has any right to make such a request after this absolutely hard-headed, foolish _idiocy_. The door has only just closed behind him when Sansa stands, crossing the room to pour herself and Brienne each a goblet of wine.

“No, thank you,” Brienne says, but Sansa arches an eyebrow and hands it over regardless, and then retakes her seat.

“As commander of my guard, I expect your honesty, Ser Brienne,” she says. “As a friend, I hope for the same.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“But you have not been honest.”

There is very little point in denial, though the words pain her. “No, my lady.”

“Would you care to explain why?” Sansa asks. “What is it about that man that drives you to break your word?”

Brienne breathes, remains outwardly calm even as a storm roils within her. “It is not Ser Jaime, my lady. Or… it is, but not—” She stumbles on her words and breathes again, gathers every vestige of grace she had been taught to wield, before she’d found refuge in swords instead; even that is more suited to a man than a woman, blunt honesty over clever words that must be parsed for meaning, but it is all she has. “I have made vows to you both, and vows to myself. The rumours against Ser Jaime were absurd; I served no vows in good faith by telling you of them.”

“And what of my faith in you, Brienne?” Sansa asks. “Is that held in so little regard?” 

The words are as sharp as any sword, at least. As lethal. She can only fight or yield; she sets her goblet aside and stands tall. 

“I would not serve you if it was,” Brienne says. “And if this was anyone else of which we speak, you would believe me, but you have your own history with Ser Jaime. You once saved his life on my word, Sansa, but you forget that you were willing to execute him only minutes before.”

 _And I thought you might do it now_ , she does not say, because she is not sure Sansa will not, that Brienne will not have to stand to one side and watch Jaime’s execution or join him; her lady’s face has become a mask, the only hints of emotion in her eyes. Anger and sadness and betrayal, all of them caused by choices Brienne is not certain she would make differently if given the chance. 

It is a truly lonely feeling.

“Leave me,” says Sansa, and even the emotions in her eyes are hidden now. “We will speak in the morn. I hope you will have better sense by then, Ser Brienne.” 

“My lady—”

“ _Now_ , Ser. Be gone.”

Brienne bows stiffly, trying to remain calm.

“I will post a second guard on your door for the night,” she says. “There is reason to believe there is a threat against you. I had meant to stand myself, but I understand if you would not trust me. Marek will do in my stead.”

Sansa sighs, and when she looks up there is exhaustion writ across her features.

“We have been up since before the sun, Brienne. Set who you like at my door, then rest. We will discuss this tomorrow.”

***

He’s in his rooms, preparing for bed, when she finds him; the door opens and he turns to see her, an unreadable expression on her face. 

“Why would you do something so foolish?” she asks, and he had expected the question but hadn’t expected the quiet flatness of her tone, and all his defenses of _doing the right thing_ and _I’ve finally learnt that allegiance is not the same as blind obedience_ fall to the wayside in the face of it. “Jaime, you could have…”

She strides across the room and then stops before him, an indefinable energy—it’s not anger, he knows her anger, and it’s not desire and it’s not… Her entire body is humming with it, like the crackle in the air a moment before lightning strikes. And then, slowly, so slowly it feels unreal, she reaches for him. Her hands are against his face, strong fingers curling at his neck and palms warm against his cheeks, as solid and real as she always is; but her lips are whisper soft, the memory of a touch as they brush his mouth, his chin, his nose. There is an aching tenderness in her touch, a yearning he is certain will dissipate if he moves. So he stays still, his arms somehow at her waist, his thumb stroking against her side, and waits. “I don’t know… I don’t know how to love you,” she murmurs, her voice cracking on the words, and under any other circumstance he would laugh, because he thinks that she is the only one who ever truly has. But not here, not now, not… not like this. 

Her lips find the corner of his mouth, a slightly firmer press and then the tiniest dart of her tongue, so quickly he would not have felt it if he was not so still, so _aware_ of every point of contact, of the calluses on her fingers and the warmth of her breath. He groans quietly, clenching his jaw as if he can pull the noise back before she leaps away, but her grip merely flexes once as she continues her tentative exploration. Her thumbs stroke his cheeks, her nose nudges against his, and this time when her tongue darts out he parts his lips slightly to welcome her. 

It’s slow, excruciatingly slow, and he can’t shake the feeling it will shatter on the next breath; this is so different from _before_ , from their time together, the way she kissed him with such certainty. Certainty in what was offered, love and loyalty and the knowledge that he was hers and she was his and yet they were owned by no-one but themselves. 

She pulls apart, just a little, as if she hears his thoughts and so he lets them drop away, tilts his head back to keep their mouths close, and she is kissing him again. His eyes drift shut as he loses himself to the slide of her tongue, the softness of her lips.

It has been less than two days since their last kiss, the unexpected moment on the practice yards, though it feels a lifetime away. There is no similarity in the two, to the point it seems strange to think them both kisses; the last had been desperate, unexpected, fuelled by the rush of a fight. This… this is so careful, so quiet, even as her fingers find the laces of his shirt, tugging them loose one by one while her mouth moves against his, and he wants her to stay, lets her lead, anything to keep her here. 

His shirt is gone, one of her hands pushing it from his body even as the other still cradles his face, and he wants… he wants her skin against his, wants to feel the warmth of her body, the movement of her muscles. _Please_ , he wants to say and doesn’t, too frightened that to speak will break this moment; perhaps she hears it anyway, because she sheds her own shirt a moment later. His hand glides up from her hip, mapping the texture of her skin beneath his palm, every ridged scar and smooth plane, until his thumb brushes against her nipple and she hisses and moves away; he thinks that it is over, but then she shifts back, her hands tugging at his trousers and pushing them down, and he doesn’t dare touch her again except lips against lips, because she’s kissing him, shallow little sips at his mouth that he struggles not to deepen, gives only what she wants. 

He just manages to kick his trousers free as she pushes him to sit on the bed; he looks up at her, her body lit by firelight and her eyes dark, awed that she is there. He wraps his arms around her waist, presses kisses against her stomach, feels her start at the sensation of his beard on her skin. He parts his mouth, aching to taste her, a swirl of his tongue dipping into her navel; one of her hands laces in his hair, tugs his head back. He smiles up at her, but her attention is elsewhere, her free hand undoing her own trousers and pushing them down. 

When she’s free of the fabric, she moves to straddle him, her legs bracketing his hips as she kisses him again. It’s deeper, a little faster, a little harsher, and then she grips him, one stroke and then a second, and sinks onto him. It’s… strange, not _bad_ but not the familiar hot slickness, the sensation of being welcomed home. He feels her grimace and moves his hand to slip between them, to tease and coax her pleasure, to make her achingly desperate, but she shakes her head and pushes his hand away.

“No,” she says quietly, licking at his mouth, “like this.”

She rides him, a slow rolling of her hips, the lift and fall of her legs, her fingers tangling in his hair to pull his head back. He looks up at her, watches the worrying of her lip and the way her gaze avoids his even as she moves, allows her to take whatever it is she is seeking, and thinks of before. Of the noises she would make, the taste of her, the laughter and the intensity, the way she would bite his shoulder when her climax overcame her. It is a strange thing, half a dream, and even now he is frightened he will wake and be left with nothing at all. 

She keeps her pace steady, deepens the motions; Jaime rests his arms at her waist, tries to guide her into a better position, wants to see her lose control, wants to see the moment she finds pleasure, the honesty as she gasps and writhes and stutters, the way her mouth drops open as she forgets to kiss him; she resists, keeps steady, and he does not fight her, submits to this strange dance that only she knows the steps of. When he feels the tingling tightening in his balls he taps her hips twice, murmurs an “ _Off, before..._ ” that has her lifting free of his body in one quick motion, that has him whimpering at the sudden absence of her; she braces one hand on his shoulder and reaches between them with the other, grasping his cock and bringing him over the edge with a disinterested efficiency. 

He is still panting from the aftermath when she stands, striding across the small chamber to find a cloth and basin. He watches, cautious, as she rinses her hands then wets the cloth and wipes the inside of her thighs, rewets the cloth and tosses it towards him; it is a motion they had done before, but not… they’d laughed and talked, before, and now she will not even meet his eyes. When he has cleaned himself and set the cloth aside, she comes back to the bed and slides beneath the covers. She says nothing, merely rolls over and falls asleep. 

He watches her back, the rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes, and wonders how he can miss her more than ever. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's twenty past three in the morning, this is the third near full version of this chapter I've written (plus... four? false starts), there are at least three things I've spent all night trying and failing to edit into what they should be. I had plans for thank you for your infinite patience and support, but it's twenty past three in the morning and if I didn't post this now I'd delete it and start version fucking four of this stupid chapter and lose my mind in the process. So, briefly, thank you. And also I'm sorry.

He doesn’t sleep. The longer he lies there, staring at the shadows the fire flickers across the ceiling, the less sense it makes. Half a hundred options for _why_ are considered and discarded, dismissed as too deceitful or too cunning or too absurd for Brienne. Because it _is_ Brienne in his bed, distant though she keeps herself even in sleep. She would not fuck him for pity or punishment, has said she does not—cannot—want more than they currently have. Or had, before… It does not matter. The closest he gets to an answer is wondering whether it was an act of protection, as if Sansa Stark would spare his life if it was a marriage true, but even that feels false. Eventually he resigns himself to no clarity and rises from the bed, silently dressing in breeches and shirt and boots; he had missed the evening meal and his stomach is protesting, so he slips from first his chambers and then their quarters to head towards the kitchen. 

There are two men on duty outside Lady Sansa’s rooms, only a few doors away from his own, and he nods at the guards but does not stop to speak. It is late enough that he sees only a few people in the corridor, but there are still people working in the kitchens. He requests a tray and takes a seat while Elyn—one of the servants he has come to know, a matronly woman who can be relied on to slip him treats when he says they are for his wife—assembles a meal and prattles on about the people displaced by the fire. There is nothing new in her story, but it reminds him that there are bigger concerns than his personal agonies. He thanks her when she gives him a tray, and tries to smile at the two honey cakes she has placed beneath a napkin; he must grimace instead, because she pats his arm—his _right_ arm—and tells him that even the best of women can be fickle from time to time. 

He doesn’t quite know what to say to that, because he can think of few words that would describe Brienne less but it’s clearly kindly meant, so he thanks her again and brings the tray back to his quarters instead of eating in the kitchens as he had planned. He places a log on the small fire and takes a seat at the table, trying not to think of the conversations had there. It matters little now. There is duty, and that is enough. It must be enough.

There is a noise behind him, and Jaime turns to see Brienne standing in the doorway to his room, looking surprised.

“You thought I’d left,” he observes, as neutrally as he can manage. 

“Only because you have before,” she replies; he expects a bite to her words, but she merely wraps her arms around herself as if to ward off a chill and moves towards the table.

He’d considered it, first. Had wondered if it would not be easier for Brienne if he was gone, if it would not be safer for Winterfell. Hadn’t quite been able to do it; he does not run from a fight, does not shirk duties that are willingly undertaken. He pushes the tray towards her rather than reply. “I missed the meal,” he says. “I presume you did too.”

“Yes.”

She has folded herself into the chair, looking almost diminutive as she studies the tray and selects a roll from it. Her gaze does not shift from the table as she begins to eat, though she draws her knees up to tuck beneath her chin. Some part of him _wants_ to be angry, wants to snap and snarl and figure out _why_ , but what fills him is bone-deep weariness. The why doesn’t matter, because it will not change what is true. 

“I won’t apologise for speaking to Sansa,” he says, when the silence interrupted only by the fire and her occasional chewing becomes unbearable. “It was the right decision, tactically, no matter how much you might despise it.”

She picks up another roll, tearing off a piece. Chews. Tears again. 

“I thought you would die,” she finally says, voice flat. “Might die. And it would have been my fault, because I had been too much of a coward to tell Sansa the truth. I was supposed to protect you, and I failed. I failed you and I failed her, and I….” Her chin tilts up slightly and her voice firms, though she continues to stare at the table rather than look at him. “Perhaps it was the right decision, but we could have done it _together_ , Jaime. It would have—even if I had failed then, I would have known there was nothing else I could have done.”

“Brienne—” He wants to tell her that this was better, that all he had done was spare her making a choice she would hate, but she’s still talking and he remembers her determination that he have the choice, and maybe it’s not better after all. 

“And then you weren’t dead, _again_ , and I just…” her voice cracks as she shakes her head, the only hint of emotion she has displayed since she’d joined him. “I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry.”

There is such _resignation_ in her that it makes him ache, and still none of this matters. They finish the meal in silence, and when it is done Jaime stands and heads towards his chambers. He hesitates, hand on the door, and looks back to where she is still sitting at the table, knees beneath her chin and shoulders hunched; in silhouette she is nigh unrecognisable. 

“Will you come to bed?” he asks. It’s not even _hope_ that drives the words, he just does not know what else to say, does not know how to explain that he wants her there, even if it is like this, scraps of what could have been. 

She says nothing, and Jaime nods and turns away. The fire in his chamber is nearly extinguished, but he does not have the energy to deal with it and slips beneath the furs on his bed. It is not a cold night. 

He doesn’t sleep.

***

There is a knot in the grain of the table, a dark whorl the size of her thumb. She isn’t certain how long she has been staring at it. Long enough that the shape seems to have changed several times—she’d swear it was rounder a moment ago, and had a tail when she first looked. She thinks if she stares at it for long enough, the knot in her chest will abate long enough for her to breathe. Just one breath, just a moment where she doesn’t have to remember the last few hours.

The shape changes again, but she still can’t dislodge the ache in her chest.

Eventually she rises, intending to head to her own chambers. One foot in front of another, and when she looks up from the stone floor it is not her door she stands before. She raises her fist as if to knock, then lets it fall back down. Tells herself to go to her own bed. Raises her fist again. Does not knock. Does not breathe. Does not think as she gently pushes the door open just wide enough that she can slip inside. 

The room is almost completely dark, but she can make out the shape of him, a mound on the far side of the large bed. The sight makes her ache, more than she already was, with a pain that is… it’s not quite remorse and not quite yearning, an inexorable tug at the weighty knot in her chest that has her crossing the small room and slipping beneath the furs, her clothes shed along the way. She stays that way for a long moment, not touching, not moving, telling herself this is enough, just a moment and she can leave again, anything more is not safe. But when the moment passes she sneaks her hand across the empty space instead of leaving, curling her fingers around his forearm. His skin is warm, his pulse languid beneath her fingertips, and the knot inside her begins to loosen. She shifts closer, slips her leg between his, settles her other hand across his chest; he has not moved nor spoken, but she knows he is awake. She knows him too well, even now; the rise and fall as he breathes, the scent of him she’d never quite forgotten.

“I miss you,” she confesses quietly, close enough now that her lips brush his shoulder as she speaks. It’s easier, somehow, to face these dangerous thoughts in the dark. “I miss you and I don’t—I don’t know how to stop. I thought I could…”

She doesn’t have the words to explain it. The certainty he would die, the certainty she had failed every oath she held dear with one choice. The way she had needed him in that moment, or _worse_ , it wasn’t that she needed him but that she’d wanted him. How she’d come to him determined to prove, if only to herself, that it meant nothing, just fear and exhaustion making her crave his skin against hers as evidence of life, proof the act could be removed from all the complicated rest. ( _I don’t know how to love you_ , she’d said and she still doesn’t, but she doesn’t know how to _not_ either.) 

And she had touched him and it had been fine, it was just warm skin and his pulse and his muscles and his breath mingling with hers and it had been _fine_ , it had been _safe_ , the slight edge of pain had been _fine_ , she was _fine_ , and then he’d moved to touch her, to make it _good_ , and she knew, she _knew_ , that if he did every last battered defense would crumble to dust, leaving too little behind to ever hope to rebuild, and she couldn’t—she couldn’t do it but she couldn’t pull away, had to prove to herself that it could mean nothing, but none of it was _fine_ , not the act and not the gaping loneliness in her breast and not the way she’d stayed because she was already too far away and it _hurt_. None of this is fine.

“I thought I could have the safe parts,” she says weakly, though it wasn’t really that at all. 

He’s rolled over while she’s been lost in thoughts, his fingers reaching out to rest gently at the crook of her neck. It’s an awkward position she cannot understand, until she realises that he has sought out the scars from the bear; there is probably some poetic irony that she can feel his fingertips against the unscarred skin but not so easily on the wound, but mostly she just _feels_ him.

“I was happy with you,” she whispers, as if anything louder will wake some sleeping beast she is not ready to face. She does not cry, but tears spill from her eyes as if from an overflowing cup, the tangled emotions more than her body can hold. “And I was happy without you. But this in-between... It's a wound that won't stop bleeding, Jaime, and I'm so tired. I'm so… It’s not supposed to be like this.”

“No,” he agrees, a quiet murmur that is the first thing he’s said, and she can hear the sad smile in his voice. “The safe parts aren’t… you can live on them for years, you can gorge yourself until you’re sick of the taste, and yet always be hungry.”

She wonders—no, _knows_ he is thinking of his sister. Her gut twists at the thought it was what she had sought, however unwittingly, however briefly. 

“I don’t—I don’t want that, and I don’t know what’s left,” she says. “I don’t know how to love you without hurting us both. Without being...” 

“Annulment, then,” he says, still quietly, pulling his fingers away from her scar. “That was always your hope, after all. Say the word and this is over, I’ll head south as soon as Sansa gives me leave. It might be for the best, with everything else.”

It’s the option she has held on to for all these moons, an assurance she has forgotten and remembered time and time again, but to hear it from him…

“We can hardly claim it was unconsummated,” she says, rather than examine the clawing fear in her chest at the words, or the way her grip tightens on his arm; their naked bodies are still touching, she can still conjure the feeling of him inside her if she lets herself.

“Of course we can,” Jaime says. “Who will disagree?”

“Perhaps all the people we have deliberately misled? Not to mention that it’s a lie.”

“There are lies worth telling, Brienne of Tarth.”

Not ser and not lady and not commander, not here; she is nothing but a woman with a choice in this moment, one that’s already simmering beneath her skin even if she’s not ready to say the words. 

“Can you kiss me?” she asks instead, feels him flinch as if she’s struck him. Perhaps she has, however unintentionally. “Not—not like earlier, like… before.” 

_Kiss me like you’re here_. 

“I’m not sure that is safe,” he says, and _damn it all_ the welling tears are falling so rapidly she really might begin to cry. She must make some sort of noise, a sniffle or an exhale or _something_ , because his thumb strokes her cheek and she knows, she _knows_ , that her defenses are useless against this. 

“I don’t _care_ if it’s safe,” she says, her voice snagging even on that, the tears falling faster, a sob rising in her breast she only just manages to push away. This is ridiculous. She is a woman grown, a knight, a commander. And she’s snivelling and prevaricating and acting like a craven youth. “I didn’t… I wanted…” his thumb is still stroking and she can’t articulate it, this _need_ in her chest. “I wasn’t asking for it to be safe.”

And it’s not all she wants to say, it’s barely any of it, but it’s something, something _certain_ , something real and tangible and simple enough to understand, and she thinks maybe he knows the rest anyways because he’s kissing her. 

_Not safe, not safe, not safe,_ it beats a steady staccato in her head, and then his fingers are falling from her cheek, tracing down her neck, her chest, her stomach as he murmurs _Let me, let me make this good_ , and she’s nodding, _not safe_ , her legs falling open and her hips rising, and his free arm wraps around her and she hears some huffing comment about _missing my hand right now_ that makes her laugh, but it doesn’t matter because he’s cradling her body and holding it against his so steadily, and his fingers are stroking, soft and certain, and ( _safe safe safe)_ they slip into her and find that spot and she stops hearing, stops listening. 

She’s distantly aware that she is touching him, fingertips digging into his back, and she means to do more, to urge him on with words and sounds and the movement of her body, means to show him what this is, but it all gets caught in the back of her throat as everything falls away,she is safe; she is close, safe, turns her head, burying her face against the pillow as she peaks with a grunt and a whine, messy and just a little bit ugly and he presses a kiss against her temple and his fingers briefly still and it was not enough, that need is rising again, less sharp but no less intense. 

“I want,” she mumbles, her body nowhere near sated as she holds onto him, feeling the firm press of his cock between them, the pleasurable chafe of the hair at its base, “inside, I want you inside.”

His fingers are gone and she whines at the loss. She expects him to roll, one way or the other, but he lifts her leg over his hip and slides in just as they are, side by side, and _oh_ this was what she had wanted all along, more than the delightful peak of pleasure he’s given her, this slow movement in and out and the soft groan as she rocks to meet him and the funny little burn of his beard against her skin as he trails kisses wherever he can reach, the dual safety in holding and being held. The way he murmurs her name, _Brienne, Brienne_ , as if it is the only sound in his world. 

“I love you,” she says, her head dropping against his shoulder, and there is… she’s told him in a thousand ways, words and actions always hedged so carefully with honour or duty or past tense or the implied caveat that she doesn’t _want_ this, hasn’t chosen to flay through layers of flesh and bone to expose herself this way, but she’s never simply _said_ it, never been safe enough to say it.

Now that she has, she doesn’t want to stop.

***

He expects her to be gone when he wakes, a suitable irony, but she is still there. Still asleep, sprawled on her back, the furs pulled to her neck and her lips slightly parted. Still with a red mark behind her ear, left behind by his mouth. He longs to kiss her again, brush his lips against the thick column of her neck until she stirs beneath him, until she opens her eyes and fixes him with that small early morning smile she’d given so freely once.

He does not kiss her, and she is woken by a knock on the chamber door.

“Sansa will be here soon,” comes Arya’s voice from the other side of the wood, as Jaime tries to figure out how she got into their quarters and Brienne blinks blearily. “I suggest you be ready to greet her when she does.”

Jaime rolls from the bed, hurriedly pulling on breeches and heading towards the water basin to wash. Brienne is still beneath the furs when he turns back towards her, sweeping her tousled hair from her face. Watching her in daylight… she had described this as a wound that would not stop bleeding, and there is a flush to her cheeks that makes him think perhaps it has at least slowed; but he thinks for him it was more of a pustulent wound, poisoning everything, finally and mercifully lanced and drained. It is not, in itself, a cure—it will need to be kept clean and drained and the healing will take time—but it no longer feels impossible that it will.

“Good morning,” she says, looking at him with such warm affection that he can hardly fathom it is real. His face must register his surprise, brief though it is, because she adds, “I did mean it. What I said last night.” 

“I know. I thought it might have been…” he struggles to think of a word that does not sound as if he is accusing her of cruelty, and finally settles on, “a regretted impulse.”

She grunts and rolls over, the furs sliding down as she sits up. “You can call it a battle fuck, Jaime, I’m not that delicate.” 

“Might be that I am, wench,” he says, giving a wry smile before grabbing a shirt and turning his back so she can rise and dress in privacy. 

He has pulled on his shirt and is studying the stones of his hearth, cataloguing the shades of grey if only so his mind does not conjure images of the naked woman behind him, when she speaks.

“I meant it to be. The first one,” she says. “I was… angry that you’d gone to Lady Sansa, frightened that you had so little regard for your own safety, frustrated at my own choices. Feeling like I had failed you both. And I… I’m not good with words, and this was hardly some beast I could ward off with a sword, and I—it seemed safe.”

“The safe parts.”

“The safe parts,” she confirms. “But it did not—the act wasn’t... _enough_ , by itself. The physical. It was fine, but it was just _parts_.” She huffs, and he hears her pull on her boots with unnecessary vigour. “I’m not explaining this well. I wanted, when I very rarely allow myself to want, and I tried to make it… different than what it was. Tried to want something different. Something simpler.”

“Ah.”

He isn’t quite certain how to respond to that, though he understands well enough. There are footfalls behind him, then her hand at his shoulder gently encouraging him to turn. He does, tilting his head up to meet her eyes.

“I don’t allow myself to want things, Jaime,” she says quietly, “because I am unlikely to get them. And you… you’d give near everything for those you love, and as frightened I am that you… might _not_ for me, the idea that you _might_ is worse.”

And isn’t that pleasant, to have your love so abhorrent that it is feared? He flinches, looks away. 

“Don’t,” she warns him as if he’s spoken aloud, her hands coming up to hold his cheeks. “Let me speak, however imprecise it is. I _love_ you, Jaime. And as absurd as it might seem, I know that you love me. I do, I swear. It is just a lot to want all at once, and with… everything else. Lady Sansa, and these attacks, and trying not to—I don’t know how to do this. Just… trust that is enough, for now? We can talk properly later.”

“Presuming Lady Sansa does not demand my head,” he says, a weak joke that merely shifts her expression into the warrior he knows best.

“She won’t,” Brienne says firmly. “I will make certain of it.” 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this chapter the longest yet? Yeah. Apparently my chapters are growing consistently longer, with all that entails re: update time. I'm sorry? This why I usually finish a fic before posting. I'm also behind on fic replies--my house has been plague central for a good month or so at this point. But, seriously, you guys have no idea how much each and every comment means to me. ♥ Oh, and fun game, try and spot the 185 word sentence in this chapter. No, I am not joking. It's not even the only one in triple digits. 
> 
> Also, immense thank yous to Luthien and languageintostillair, who are both marvelous, patient people who deal with my "Neener neener I can do what I want" when they are giving me feedback I specifically asked for. Many wonderful things in this chapter are thanks to them, and any lingering errors are my own terrible choices. 😂

She kisses Jaime once as she prepares to leave, a soft mingling of their breath that grounds her. The guilt and uncertainty of these past weeks has reasserted itself, the knowledge that whatever is to come, she has altered her relationship with Sansa irrevocably. For worse, most likely, though she still believes—no, she is certain it was the right thing to do. 

Arya is sitting cross-legged on the table when Brienne exits Jaime’s chambers; she gives Brienne an arch look and says nothing. It is a particularly loud nothing, laced with such insinuations as _today of all days_ and _I’m here to help you and this is what I find_ , and Brienne has to resist the urge to break the silence. She heads to her own rooms instead, in search of a shirt that does not carry the lingering smell of smoke from the day before, and once she is alone she takes one deep, shuddering breath. The fire in her hearth is long dead, leaving the room brisk but not unpleasant. 

A shirt is procured. She washes her face and hands with water from a jug. Studies her face in a small looking-glass, uncertain what it is she seeks; they are the same features they always are, transformed by neither love nor deception, and perhaps that is enough in itself.

Her hands shake slightly as she scoops her fingers into the small pot of beeswax scented with lavender, the one she keeps for the most important occasions, and uses its contents to slick back her hair. It is a woman’s weapon, one Sansa will understand, even if the form is different; Brienne knows she must be infallible in all aspects for the coming discussion if she is to have even half a hope of reaching her lady. Her hair, her dress, her posture must be befitting of a knight—none of these will persuade Sansa alone, they are merely armour that will keep her on the battlefield. But Brienne has history on her side. The truth. 

(She has Jaime as well, and though it will not endear her to Sansa, it still feels a weight in her favour.)

She contemplates her full armour, contemplates the the dark blue doublet that marks her as an honorary Stark, both of them statements of allegiances she sees no need to make. Her loyalties are _hers_ , dictated as much by her own choices and her own morals as promises made; she knows she felt different once, and perhaps it would be easier if she felt so still, but she cannot regret the shift. Even if the very worst comes to pass, if Sansa finds this unforgivable and sends Brienne away, if she fails her duty so completely, she will know… she will know that she did all she could, the best she could. 

She finishes dressing, placing Oathkeeper at her waist, and returns to the outer solar. Jaime is lounging in a seat, eating breakfast from a tray that has arrived while she was in her chambers and holding a quiet conversation with Arya. She watches him for a moment, reading enough in the neatness of his dress and the easiness of his posture to know that both are his own defense, and allows herself the briefest foray into sentimentality. He’s never been good at hiding his emotions, not when one knows where to look—in the softness of his eyes, the carefulness of his body, the big actions that speak of heroism and the little ones that can pass by unnoticed. He has been telling her since his arrival north, in all the ways he looks and speaks and acts, but she had chosen not to listen. Had not been capable of it. And now it is clear—he loves her, would do near anything for her. It is a revelation terrifying in its magnitude, but she is grateful for it.

Crossing the room, she takes the chair beside him and picks up a piece of bread.

“Brienne,” he says in mock-scolding. “That was mine.”

“Piss off, I’m hungry,” she retorts, giving him a small smile and then looking towards Arya. “Good morning.”

“For you, perhaps,” says the younger woman. “I was woken before dawn by Lady Fury herself.”

Brienne winces, but before she can enquire further there is a knock on the door and Sansa enters, head held high, dressed in blacks and greys and metal chains, an armour of her own, and for a moment Brienne’s composure falters. It is one thing to prepare for war, another to ride into it. Pod enters behind her, face blank as he stands at her shoulder, and that perhaps is worse. Beneath the table, Jaime’s arm nudges against her thigh, and atop it Arya noisily slides off and into a chair; by the time Sansa’s icy eyes meet Brienne’s, she has braced herself for the conversation to come. She rises and bows, pauses for Sansa to sit in the chair on the far side of the table before retaking her seat. Sansa, for her part, sits straight, folds her hands neatly in front of her, and waits.

Jaime, impatient fool that he is, is the one to break the silence. “Lady Stark, while I am sure you would delight in ordering my death, we surely both agree that the safety—”

Sansa raises a hand to stop him. “Do you still wish to depart Winterfell?”

Brienne’s stomach drops, and she hopes it does not show on her face. Had he, had she—the thought is interrupted by the nudge of Jaime’s arm a second time. A reminder that he _is_ here. 

“I will, if it is in the best interests of Winterfell,” Jaime says, meeting Sansa’s eyes. “That is not the same as wishing to.”

“Very well,” is all Sansa says before turning her gaze to Brienne. “If you believe there is a threat to Winterfell, then I would have your insights on how to address it.”

“M’lady,” murmurs Pod from behind Sansa, “perhaps I should…”

“Of course, Podrick,” Sansa says, waving a hand vaguely. “It would be foolish to presume Ser Brienne could provide a true assessment without the full details.”

Brienne is not certain whether it is meant as an admonishment for the secrets Brienne has kept, or an apology for the ones Sansa has. Either war, the words make Pod wince. 

“Ser— _sers_ ,” he says, nervousness lacing his voice, “it’s—perhaps it is not, that is… Fenton Waters might have been behind the fire. I mean, I don’t—I don’t _know_ , just that it’s strange: he retired early two nights ago but was tired the next morning, and nobody recalls seeing him in the barracks. And given his… writing south and…” He fidgets. “I thought you ought to know.”

“Thank you, Pod,” Brienne says. “I take your point. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

“I’m very sorry, ser, I—”

“You have trailed the man for moons at Lady Sansa’s insistence,” Brienne says, forcing herself to smile. It was not Pod’s choice that kept the man in Winterfell. “You could not expect to be on duty every hour of the day.” 

Pod nods and opens his mouth as if to apologise again, and Jaime gently silences him.

“You’ve done well, Pod. Go, break your fast. Unless, of course, Lady Sansa feels she requires you.” 

The look he sends Sansa makes it clear—his words are a challenge aimed at her, no matter how kindly he speaks to Pod. Brienne watches Sansa’s lips press together for a half-breath, and then she nods and tells Pod she will speak with him again later. The air crackles as Jaime and Sansa continue to look at each other, and Brienne cannot help but feel that it is remarkably reminiscent of the energy before a duel, the hint it could all tip into violence in the next breath. This particular game has never been her forte; she strikes to kill in battle and waits in duels, evaluates, allows people to exhaust themselves before mounting her own assault. Neither technique feels quite suited to the field before her. But she will not concede, and leans forward as the door closes behind Pod.

“Someone wants us to believe Ser Jaime is behind these attacks,” she says. “Whatever their reasons, whether it is Fenton Waters or another, _that_ must be addressed before more harm comes to the North, or to you. His absence would leave whoever is truly behind them with ample opportunity to mount another; I am sure Ser Jaime’s offer was made with his duty in mind, but it will do more harm than good.”

“Agreed,” says Arya from her seat, the first words she has spoken. “We can discuss who knew what and when and why until winter comes again and it will get us no further. We have to _do_ something. The two of you can quibble over Ser Brienne after.” 

The near identical bristling from Sansa and Jaime would be comical, under other circumstances, their straight backs and discomforted sneers practically reflections, but Brienne cannot find it so with so much at stake. Arya’s warning seems to reach them both, at least; within moments their postures soften and the duel becomes a parley, though the tentative peace is held only by a mutual love for Brienne and Arya. Ideas are discussed, debated, abandoned for one flaw or another, the _who_ and the _why_ and the _how do we_ all slowly unravelled until there is something approaching understanding. And all the while Jaime and Sansa are circling round each other with well-timed jabs: he comments about trusting Brienne, she counters with a treacle-laced query about his time in King’s Landing, he challenges her decisions, she challenges his choices. A thousand little cuts that would leave both of them bloody if this was more than words. But somehow, _somehow_ , it works, in its own way; it is awful to witness, the careful sniping at weaknesses that should be below them both, but from it emerges a truth that is… it is far from pleasant, but it is feasible in a way the other options are not. 

Eventually, Jaime stirs. “If that is settled then—” 

“It is not,” Brienne replies, fixing him with a glare.

“Then I’ll leave you ladies to it,” he says, leaning over slightly with his hand on the back of her chair and giving her a fond grin. “You’re more than capable, and I’m afraid I’m due on the practice yards. You can tell me of any changes to our plans come midday.”

Arrogant, foolish— For a brief moment, Brienne thinks he means to kiss her, and for an even briefer moment she wishes he would. But the thought of being _seen_ is humiliating enough, even if things were not so precarious, and so she contents herself with the way his fingers brush against her shoulders as he straightens and bids farewell, all arrogance and charm and confidence. 

The door has only just closed behind him when Sansa’s mask slips, just for a moment.

“That man is unworthy of you,” she says, the smoothness of her face undermined by the twitching clench of her jaw and the venomous look she shoots towards the door.

Brienne remains placid, or as near as she can while her stomach churns so. “So I have been told. None have been able to tell me why.”

“I could send him away,” Sansa remarks mildly rather than respond. “Coward. Murderer. Sister-fucker. You’d consider following him, I think, but I don’t believe you would. There is too much for you here, and only his worthless word if you left.”

“ _Desist_ ,” Brienne hisses, just as Arya sits upright and warns, “Sansa—”

“No!” Sansa shouts, startling even herself. She folds her hands, masks her face once again. “I will not be made silent in my own home. I have welcomed him, offered him a respectable position, and what has he done? Brought danger to my people, swayed the allegiances of my only—of my sister and my commander. He might say pretty words, Brienne, but you know better than anyone what he is.”

 _A man of honour, of love, of contradictions. And mine._ “I do.” 

“And yet you give him your loyalty over me.”

“You _have_ my loyalty,” Brienne snarls, sick of it all. She is patient, but she cannot be on the defense forever. “You do not have my blind obedience. Nor does Jaime. Nor Arya, or Pod, or my father, or—” She reaches for Sansa, a corner of her heart breaking when the woman flinches away. She pulls her hand back and continues, half-pleading, “I swore to protect you with my life, and I will happily give it, but I stayed in Winterfell, I took _command_ , because I believe in your leadership. I believe that we are creating a better world. This grudge you bear Jaime is… it is not justice, it is retaliation. You offered him a respectable position and treated it as a reward to _me_ , bartered his loyalty like it was… fruit at a market. Useful and transient.”

“And so you lied.” The words are level, neutral; the weight behind them is not.

“I lied because the truth would have only done harm. You lied for reasons of your own.”

“ _Good_ reasons.” 

“As are mine.”

“I disagree.”

Brienne stands, hoping the tears that blur her vision will not spill. “I will not continue this conversation. We will not find common ground. I did what I believed best. You believe otherwise. Either you trust in me or you do not—”

“Of course I trust you, ser. But you expect his love to _mean_ something, expect his loyalty to last. It will only cloud your judgement and break your heart in the end.”

 _When we disagree and there is no compromise. When we must both do what we believe is right and find ourselves on opposing sides once more, what then?_ She still does not know the answer. Perhaps there is none, no certainty, no oath that can be made and upheld. But she, he, _they_ are willing to try. That is enough. 

“No. This is not—” She pauses, blunt fingernails digging into the flesh of her palm. “I think we must proceed with the plans as discussed. The safety of Winterfell and yourself must be our priority. The rest we will set aside for another time.” She bows, the tears barely at bay. Sansa does not react, wears a mask of perfect neutrality. “Good day, Lady Sansa. Arya. I will see you both at the evening meal.” 

Brienne strides towards the door, hopes it is the purposeful movement of a woman with commitments elsewhere and not the flight of one still unsettled. She glances back, briefly, as she opens the door; Sansa is still at the table, still with perfect posture, perfect mask, perfect poise. 

It is almost worse than seeing her cry. 

***

Brienne is seated at the table when Jaime returns to their quarters for the midday meal, head buried in some papers; he presumes she did not hear the door because she does not look up, her brow furrowed—he hopes it is because of the contents of the papers rather than the lingering effects of her conversation with Sansa, though he has his doubts. 

As he moves closer, there is a small smile that tugs on the corner of her lips, evidence she is not entirely unaware of his presence. And he knows that this isn’t, in itself, a solution, that there are plenty of things that still need to be addressed, between them and in the bigger picture, but _oh_ there’s a swooping joy in his gut as he remembers that she loves him. She _loves_ him. 

“You settled the details?” he asks, deliberately vague. Their quarters are safe, but caution asserts itself all the same when she is involved. 

“As best we could. It will go as discussed,” she replies, eyes still on the paper and smile twitching. It’s not even a happy thought, he knows, just the elation of _knowing_. 

He’s damn near _giddy_ with knowing. 

“And Lady Sansa was appeased?” he asks. Casually. Carefully. 

“In truth?” Brienne sighs, a hand reaching up to rub her temple and the smile falling from her face. “I do not know. She is hurt. Betrayal cuts her deeper than most. But she… I believe it will be well, given time, though I cannot yet see how. I cannot think of it beyond that for now.”

He nods and does not ask further, certain she will speak of it when, if, she is able to. He is close enough to her now that he turns and leans against the table, legs stretched before him as he studies the wall. 

“This is alright?” he asks, motioning to his position, her description of this being _a lot_ still fresh in his mind—and he understands it, really, because he’s… he is _a lot_. He knows he is. Even without the complications with Sansa. The things he has done for those he loves—he’s quite possibly a whole dragon worth of _a lot_ , and she’s not charging directly at it, but she’s also not retreating, and—

“Yes, Jaime,” she says, cutting through his thoughts. “You sitting on the table is perfectly fine, so long as you don’t spill the inkpot.” And then she looks up and gives him a smile that tells him it’s not really about the inkpot or the desk and she knows it as well as he does, and the elation swoops again. 

He cocks his head to look at the papers before her, sees it is a schedule. 

“You’ve—”

“Yes.” 

Of course she has. Her pragmatic competency is what makes her so suited to her position, just as her determination to live by her code of honour makes her suited to knighthood. His fingers tighten on the edge of the table, the wood digging against his palm. Beside him, she makes a final note on the schedule, laying the sheet carefully to dry and cleaning her quill; he watches her long fingers move so carefully, so _measured_ , and it’s a lot, how much her hands are… like her. 

“Jaime,” she says, breaking him from his thoughts once more, her voice that lovely deep sound that resonates in his breast. It’s all the little details he’s denied himself in these past moons, a parched man finding water. “We can speak with Sansa again, if you are uncertain—”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. He reaches out, brushing the back of his hand against the back of hers. “I think this is the right of it.”

The corner of her lips tighten, as if she has doubts of her own, but it passes quickly and she stands and moves between his legs. He tilts his head to look up at her; this close he can see her freckles, the scar on her lip, the near translucent lashes that frame her eyes. It is _a lot_ , to be this close. 

“Take a sword from the armory when we’re done,” she directs, unaware of his thoughts, and unfastens the belt that holds Widow’s Wail with surety. “I’ll make sure this gets to you.”

She lifts the belt and sword away, laying it all carefully on the table, touching the scabbard before turning back to him fully. Her hands rest on his thighs for a moment before moving slowly northward, her patient touch a lot but not _enough_. His hips shift a little, restless already. 

“Is this alright?” she asks quietly, eyes on where her fingers are stroking the crook of his thigh through his breeches.

“I’d have a hard time saying no when you’re touching me like that,” he says, closing his eyes to better soak in the sensation of her fingers, willing them to seek his cock—she pauses instead, her hands pulling away slightly.

“You would though?” 

And oh, _oh_ , perhaps he is not the only one who feels like a lot. That _this_ is a lot, even without… him, and the complications he brings. His eyes open and his hand reaches up to cup her cheek, tilting it until she looks at him. 

“I _promise_ ,” he says, “that I will take great delight in telling you no if you are wrong, ser wife.” _It’s too much_ , he thinks, the term of endearment, but she smiles slightly and so he leans forward to brush a kiss against her lips. “I meant… I meant that I want a lot, most things, with you, and when it is offered…” 

She smiles. And then… it’s like fire, flame from the smallest spark; she is kissing him, adamant and clumsy, and her hands, her hot, clever hands, are tugging at the laces of his breeches, and one of them pants “Bed” despite the fact the table is right there—mustn’t knock over the inkpot—and it’s… it’s tangled and passionate, but it’s also _steady_ , he’s not worried about colliding with furniture or tripping over his feet or saying the wrong thing because they’ve been doing this, _navigating_ , long enough that it’s a dance, and then she has him on the bed, her bed, straddling him with her hair in disarray and half her clothing gone—he did that, he thinks with more than a little smugness—and she laces her fingers through his, lifts both his arms above his head, kisses him. 

“Alright?” she asks, shifting slightly and it is _more_ than alright, but he nods and tilts his head back and lets her suck at the very base of his neck, low enough it will be hidden even by a shirt. 

And she just touches him, her hands still pinning his arms as she kisses and licks and suckles, drives him half out of his mind with how good it feels, makes him shudder when her teeth scrape against his clavicle, until he moans, “Want to touch you.”

The weight on his arms lessens immediately as she pulls back but doesn’t release, the arch of her eyebrow asking even before her voice does whether he wants her to let him go, and he considers it before shaking his head, grinning. “No.” And _oh_ , her answering grin is… it’s transcendent, beautiful and a little amused, and if telling her no means she’ll look like _that_ than perhaps he should do it more often, but right now what he wants, all he wants, is, “Come nearer though, I wish to kiss you.” 

And she does and they kiss, and their noses bump, and they laugh, and it is enough, just this, at least until she begins to rock against him—he tugs at her gentle grip, a request for release, and she lets go; his arms find her waist, his fingers find the edge of her breeches to tug them down, off, and it’s awkward and it’s hasty but so _good_ as she sinks onto him and begins to ride, and he tightens his hold as he thrusts up and she makes this _noise_ , this keening, glorious noise, and he’s going to lose his godsdamned mind, because it’s a lot, it’s everything in this moment, and her thumb brushes against his cheek so softly and he thinks maybe he is crying, just a little, which seems ridiculous when it is this _good_ , but it doesn’t matter because it’s just Brienne, and it’s a _lot_ but she has the heart to take it, and he changes the angle, just a little, hoping she’ll make that noise again and, fuck, she _does_ , and it’s a lot, it’s enough, it’s everything. _She_ is everything. 

She collapses against his chest, afterwards, laughing softly as she strokes the skin against his ribs, as he holds her close and presses a kiss against the crown of her head that is tucked beneath his chin; nothing exists outside their chambers, their bed, in this moment. Only them. They will have to rise soon, he knows, to clean themselves and dress once more, return to afternoon duties. Address the situation with Fenton Waters, face the evening meal and all that will entail. But it can wait another moment, another breath. For now, this is enough.

***

The Great Hall is near full with people supping; Brienne sees Pod towards the front of the room, Fenton Waters beside him, and Jaime is placed two seats away from Lady Sansa, the chair between them meant for Brienne herself. There is a detached coolness between them that is better than their antagonistic posturing of the morning; they will never be easy in each other’s presence, not truly, but this is at least a neutrality that is near enough to normalcy for them. Arya is near the main doors, and her blacksmith is leaning against the wall near the smaller entry used by the servants. And Brienne should be assured, everyone where they need to be, but she dislikes it all the same. 

As she moves towards the table and takes her place, she is keenly aware of her body in ways she rarely is; aware of the sweet ache between her legs after so long without it, aware of the places beneath her armour that Jaime had marked with tongue and teeth and lips, aware of skin branded by nothing more than his touch. She’s long thought her own body a weapon, a tool; she cares for it the way she cares for her sword and armour, and that is enough, but after…. There are moments when she swings Oathkeeper where she is not part of the sword but the sword is an extension of _her_ , a unity that transcends more than the physical, and she feels it now; it’s not completion, she hates that idea, but it’s—it is a feeling of being larger, more connected, deeper roots and stronger branches, or perhaps it is simply allowing herself to feel her true size. 

Or perhaps she is just well-fucked. 

She nods to the man stood behind Sansa, thankful that whatever else she feels, her lady trusts her judgement enough to treat the threat seriously, and takes her place at the table. Jaime spares her only the smallest glance, as if he dare not do more; beneath the table she nudges his foot with hers, ducking her head to hide the small smile that results when he nudges her back. The meal is simple and filling, and Brienne savours the flavour if only as a distraction for what will come next. 

From the corner of her eye she sees Fenton Waters finish his bowl, setting aside the spoon and pushing it away, and knows it must be now. Her gaze flicks around the room, ascertaining that everyone is still where they ought to be, and sees two of the Stewardsguard rise from their seats and approach; the spoon she holds digs into her palm, and she feels Jaime lay his hand atop hers briefly in a rarely-used but deeply familiar gesture. She sets the spoon aside and his hand drops away.

The men stop before the head table, bowing to Sansa and Brienne before turning to Jaime. 

“Come with us please, Ser Jaime,” says the taller of the two. Brienne knows their names, they are _her_ men after all, but as a strange metallic taste fills her mouth she finds that she is unable to call either to mind. Their words are quiet, their expressions remorseful, and she hates it. 

Jaime stands, his head already bent in submission, and she _hates_ it. She stands as well, angles herself between her husband and the men who serve her.

“What is this about?” she asks, her voice calm and steady, carrying through the room; the hall has fallen silent as people have turned to watch. 

“Ser Brienne,” says one of the men, more than a little nervously. A strange urge to laugh fills her. “Lady Sansa asked us to do this quietly.” 

“I don’t believe in secrecy,” she replies. “If you have need of Ser Jaime, you can say why.”

The men look to Lady Sansa, drawing themselves to their full heights and placing their hands on their swords; Brienne is still bigger than they are, could take both of them out easily. It is all pageantry and she hates it. Hates how aware she is of every moment of this farce, hates how sharp the colours are in the flickering of torchlight and the scent of their stew and how she _feels_ the weight of her armour and sword. 

“Ser Jaime is to be charged with treason,” says one of the men, a sneer on his lips. 

Half the room erupts in a roar. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this update my Christmas miracle? ABSOLUTELY. Why I ever think I can write plotty things in December I do not know, so barring a true miracle, I will see you lovelies in 2020. This short one-shot is going really well, obviously. Thank you all for sticking with it, and your continued patience as I utterly fail at comment replies in a timely manner! ♥♥♥

Whatever reaction Jaime is expecting to the pronouncement of his treason, the chaos that erupts throughout the Great Hall is more than he’d anticipated. Even Brienne, angled between him and the room as if to shield him from the worst of it, seems taken aback. None of the voices rising from amidst the cacophony seems to be calling for his immediate execution—not that he has much time to examine the nuances, because it is the work of a moment for the men to round the table and remove the sword from his waist, to escort him from the hall with a hand on each shoulder. As the heavy wooden doors shut behind them, he hears first Sansa and then Brienne calling some sort of order.

Once they are alone, the grips loosen and the hands fall away, accompanied only by an admonishment to cooperate. The men have not even drawn their weapons; it is so obvious an oversight Jaime wonders whether they are aware of the deception, though telling them is not part of the arrangement, and hopes there is no ulterior discontent that has them lenient to a traitor. Either seems more likely than the possibility Brienne’s men are poorly trained. 

They march through a near-empty Winterfell; he half-expects Sansa to have him sent to the cells out of pure spite, but he is brought to a small room at the end of a corridor not far from his own quarters. That is where the similarity ends—the fireplace here is so small it struggles to heat the room despite the fact it is no bigger than a half-dozen paces in any direction, and the only window is barely wide enough to tell the time of day. The room is bare of adornments, containing little more than a narrow bed against the far wall and a wooden table and two chairs tucked in a small nook near the door. The furs on the bed are musty, though he won’t freeze. And, perhaps the truly demoralising point, there are no signs of Brienne. It’s not as if their shared quarters are strewn with reminders of her presence, she is too meticulous for that, but she _is_ present. A cloak hung near the fire to dry, letters to respond to on the desk. This room is devoid of any indications of life. _His_ life. 

Sighing, he thanks the men who have brought him here and takes a seat on the bed as they leave. The mattress is straw, thin enough that he can feel the hilt of Widow’s Wail beneath his hand when he presses down; it is something familiar, at least, something known. Not that it will matter—his role in this game is simply to wait under lock and key while others act, which has never been his inclination but is the best tactic they have. 

Leaving the sword where it is, he strips down to his undershirt and breeches, fingers brushing against the bruise left by their afternoon activities and still hidden beneath the thin wool; he cannot feel it except as a memory, Brienne above him in delighted disarray, her lips on his skin, her sighs and moans and sweet laughter, but he does not doubt its presence. Does not doubt that he had woken that morning with his wife in his bed, does not doubt her confessed _I love you_ , does not doubt _her_. 

The last few days have been a dizzying array of shifts in quick succession, loss and fear and grief and hope all vying for supremacy; he is both exhausted and not—the bone-deep weariness of loving futilely has dissipated in light of the truth, but there is so much left to do. So much still uncertain. Lying on the bed, he stares at the ceiling as he contemplates it all—the small fire casts strange shadows against the stones above him, shifting shades of darkness, and he follows them until he drifts into an unrestful sleep. 

***

Brienne wakes at dawn out of habit, and is half-dressed before she remembers that Jaime will not be in the training yards as has been their custom for… moons, now, she realises. A comfortable familiarity that has crept up on her when she was unaware. She is torn between returning to bed, a rare indulgence, and heading to the yards to run through forms as a release for the low tension humming through her veins. Sansa and Jaime and potential dangers she cannot be certain of are leaving her unsettled, restless. Before she can decide either way, there is a knock on the door; she finishes dressing hastily and then heads into the outer solar, striding across the room to answer. It is one of the kitchen maids—Elyn, her mind supplies a moment later, because her father had always insisted that no lord or lady should be so wholly unconnected to the people who served them—and in Elyn’s hands there is a tray laid out with a suitable breakfast: porridge with dried fruit, a fried egg, and tea so dark she suspects it might taste of sludge. It’s hearty and practical, precisely what she craves.

“I did not—” she begins, but Elyn smiles and pushes her way into the room.

“It’s no trouble, ser,” the woman says, crossing over to the table and laying out the meal. “We—those of us in the kitchens, that is—thought you might not wish to face the Great Hall, given…” 

_Given your husband was just arrested for treason_. 

Brienne coughs to clear her throat, a pang filling her that even if this works it might do more damage to Jaime’s reputation than can be withstood, but all she says is, “That is very kind, thank you.” It _is_ , even if it is also inconvenient for her plans to observe Fenton Waters. “I cannot hide forever, but perhaps just this morn.”

Elyn looks at her for a moment, head cocked. “Chin up, dear,” she says. “It will all be sorted soon enough, I’ve no doubt of that.”

Brienne is quite certain she’s never been called _dear_ in her life, not by a near-stranger. It’s disconcerting, but Elyn reaches out and _pats her arm_. 

“There’s a treat beneath the napkin,” she says. “We thought you might appreciate it, until he is home once more.” 

Oh, it’s _Jaime_. Brienne forgets, sometimes, that for all his reputation—deserved and not—as a sharp, harsh man, he could charm the birds from the trees. And apparently an entire kitchen worth of maids. No doubt one of the many advantages of being beautiful, even that sort of lived-in beauty he bears now. (He might even be _more_ beautiful, now, at least in Brienne’s eyes. Not that she’d ever tell _him_ such a thing. The vanity might be enough to drive her to an annulment after all. (It’s the way his eyes crinkle in the corners when he is happiest, she thinks; it would take a stronger woman than her to deny him that.))

Brienne thanks Elyn again and walks her to the door, then returns to the table to break her fast. The treat beneath the napkin is a honeycake from the night before; Brienne’s quiet laughter breaks the eerie stillness of the room, and she wonders how many cakes he has charmed from the kitchens in these past moons. More than a few, she knows, always for _his lady wife_. Birds and trees, that man. 

She finishes the meal and does not expect to think of the slightly odd encounter again, but her best intentions are ruined by what seems to be half the population of Winterfell. It starts in the training yards, several men approaching her separately, their eyes on the dirt at their feet—she braces herself for the words she knows will come, _Kingslayer_ and _Oathbreaker_ and _It was noble of you to try to change a Lannister_ , but instead it is… _Ser Jaime is a good man, there must be some misunderstanding_ and _I’ve never much liked the man, but he’s no more a traitor than I_ , until she is quite convinced she is standing in an entirely birdless forest. But he has fought and trained with these men, it is not entirely impossible to believe they have seen the same honour in him that she had. 

And then it is the servants, and the man who runs the inn in Wintertown, and one particularly precocious little girl Brienne barely recognises, all of them offering words meant to comfort, assurances there must be some mistake, until Brienne begins to wonder whether charm could, in fact, be treasonous in itself. Seven hells. 

(Even when she is exasperated beyond words, however, she wishes he could witness this outpouring of what is undeniably love. She knows all too well what he expects to be whispered behind his back, what _was_ whispered for so many years. However annoyed she is in this sudden high praise, however much she knows that it is more complicated than people like to believe, she’d never wish the alternative on him.)

The arrival of a raven in the late afternoon is a godsdamned relief. It’s from Addam Marbrand—she recognises his hand at a glance, having studied his previous letters—and addressed to Jaime, so Brienne has some hopes there will be useful information contained therein. She nods to Pod, still trailing Fenton Waters, as she heads back to her quarters to read the message. Another day she would read it with Jaime, who knows his cousin better than Brienne does, or bring it directly to Lady Sansa, who is much quicker to parse hidden meanings than Brienne is. But the cool look her lady had given Brienne when their paths had briefly crossed earlier in the day tells her neither is a particularly feasible option at the moment. 

_Dear coz_ , began the letter, _I have recently been made aware of the passing of a mutual acquaintance of ours. Do you remember the blacksmith in Tumbleton, who once reshod your grey mare? Gilberd, his name was; it seems he’s been gone these last three years, and left no family behind._

Brienne’s brow furrows—Gilberd of Tumbleton was one of the few names they had been able to connect to Fenton Waters, the man they believed him to be communicating with, and it seemed he does not exist. She keeps reading. 

_As for the mysterious young woman you wished to speak with_ —the one Waters had been seen speaking with in King’s Landing, before he’d come north with the returning army— _her identity remains elusive. It feels as if the entire exercise is a matter of chasing ghosts, some quite literally. I will, of course, continue my inquiries when my duties do not call me elsewhere, but I begin to despair of ever learning her name. I can only hope your own queries in the North have proven more fruitful._

Well, that is terribly inconvenient. Brienne rubs her forehead and sighs—the rest of the letter is well wishes from Ser Addam and Lord Tyrion, and she suspects there is some hidden joke in the reference to Jaime’s felicitous marital status, but probably no harm. Tyrion is Tyrion, of course, but she’s never felt her own correspondence with the Marbrand cousin to be anything but respectful—a remarkable feat, given how men usually react to her. It is far from her biggest concern, regardless. Let them tease, if it leads to answers.

She is to meet with Lady Sansa again after the evening meal—Pod and Fenton are on guard duties, so Brienne quickly scarfs down the stew and slips out early enough that she can take her sword to a training dummy, the practised movements grounding her before she must face…

She _understands_. She does. But it does not make it any easier. Everything is muddled—duty and friendship and history, and perhaps a mutual need to protect the other against their own worst impulses and failing miserably at it. The sword she understands, the weight and the balance and how to move with it, more than _this_. 

Still, she is in Sansa’s solar sooner than she would like, the slight tremble of well-exerted muscles not entirely abated. Her lady raises her eyes from the correspondence before her, arching an eyebrow.

“Ser Brienne,” she says. “You have come to make a report?”

Brienne stands straight, shoulders back, refuses to think of the comfortable way they might have had this conversation before.

“Yes, Lady Stark. Training is progressing as expected, and I have altered the duty roster so your personal guards will…” _not be me_ , “be suitable. There has been a letter from the Lord Commander of the Southern Stewardsguard, regarding Fenton Waters.” She produces the letter, stands silent as Sansa reads and then returns it.

“This is not good news,” she says. “Has our ploy borne fruit?”

“Not as of yet, my lady.”

Sansa nods. Cool. Disinterested.

“Very well. We will speak again tomorrow.”

It is a dismissal. Brienne bows and takes her leave, returns to her empty quarters. There are no quiet affirmations of faith in her, no kitchen maids ready to assure her that she has done the right thing and justice will be had.

She heads to bed early. 

***

Brienne comes to him on the second day, her armoured body filling the small room that has been turned into his prison. He is sitting on the bed, as if there is anything else to do, and tilts his head to take in her familiar features.

“On your feet, Kingslayer,” she commands, hand extended as if to forcefully haul him up, her body angled in such a way that any observer at the door would not see the tenderness with which she laces her fingers through his, the way she strokes the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. 

She shoves him towards the table in the corner, sprawling into the chair nearer to the door as if she is determined to be more guard than captor even in this deception, armour softly clinking as she does. 

“I’m sorry it’s taken so long,” she says quietly, her thumb still stroking his. “Your arrest has sparked far more dissent than we expected—a handful of people are adamant they knew all along that you had not changed, and a few are willing to believe it, but most are certain there has been some mistake.”

”So much for _the north remembers_ ,” Jaime says dryly.

The look she gives him would quell lesser men, but he merely smiles at her. _She loves him_. It’s made the captivity far less dull than it otherwise would have been. She shakes her head slightly. 

”They _do_ , Jaime,” she says, as if it is obvious. “That’s why they are so certain. They remember the man who rode north to face the dead because it was the right thing to do. The one they fought and mourned beside. The one who—” she exhales and Jaime knows she means Cersei, a spectre not entirely dispelled by telling the truth, but she firms her jaw and says, “made difficult choices. The man who has helped rebuild, helped trained. They know the man I know, the man you can be, and they don’t believe this of you.”

He means to make a quip about wondering where such certainty was when he’d killed Aerys, back when the worst of his sins had merely been loving his sister as a Targaryen might, but his lips stumble on the words and he remains silent. It is a weighty thing, to have such faith placed on him, and he hopes he is worthy of it. The remarkable fact is that he believes, for the first time in years, that he may be. Brienne gives him the smallest of bittersweet smiles, as if she reads his thoughts, and squeezes his hand once before letting go to lean back in the chair.

“This is, admittedly, not the most _convenient_ time for them to show such trust, but…” she trails off for a moment, then says, “as complicated as it makes things, I can’t be sorry for it. I won’t be.” Gods, but her eyes are blue in this light. 

“Other than that, though?”

She stiffens; anger, a little, but there is something else there as well. “If Fenton Waters has an ulterior motive with you in play, he has not shown his hand. With so many ready to come to your defense, it’s no surprise. You have your sword?”

The shift in subject surprises him, but he glances towards the thin mattress where Widow’s Wail is hidden and nods.

“Good,” she says, quietly, “We are trying to ensure there is at least one guard we are certain of on the door, but I still… I will sleep better knowing you can defend yourself.”

She speaks as if the mere mention of a threat will make it so, despite the indifferent kindness he has been treated with and the purported support of his innocence. He reaches out this time, stroking the skin of her clenched fist until it relaxes, until her fingers unfurl to welcome his palm against hers; he feels familiar callouses as their hands glide together, an echo he does not realise he craves until he finds it.

“I am _fine_ , Brienne,” he says as her fingers close around his. Gentle. She is always gentle. “Bored, perhaps, and sick to death of the sight of these four bare walls, but perfectly well. With me here, it is much harder to claim that I have harmed others, or for action to be taken against Sansa.”

She nods, but says, “I still dislike it. It has shifted the target onto you, when people have already wanted you dead.”

In another woman, such petulance might be endearing, an indication of deep affection coyly expressed, but from Brienne it is more disconcerting than anything else. 

“Not people _here_ ,” Jaime reminds her, squeezing her hand. “The dissent is proof of that, though I’m sure there are a _few_ who wouldn’t mind making an attempt. And you know perfectly well why we must do this.” He gives a smirk he intends to be smug, but suspects ends somewhere around besotted. “That you’ve finally seen the advantage to our marriage does not make you any less true to your vows, ser.”

“Jaime…”

“Bri- _enne_ ,” he counters in a sing-song, then softens. Whatever her reasons, she is concerned. “I trust you.”

It’s too simple a phrase to convey all that he means—that he trusts her, of course, that he trusts _in_ her, in her fierceness and her goodness and the sheer unshakeable force of her determination, that he loves her—but it is all that feels right, with everything else. 

“And I you,” she replies, because she _knows_ regardless of all he does not say. “Still, I wish…” she exhales sharply. “Sansa has raised the possibility of a trial, in the hopes that will loosen Fenton’s tongue.”

It is the next logical move, though not one he’d been hoping for. 

“How is Lady Stark?” he asks.

Her eyes tell him enough, the slight wince and the quickly masked pain, and he is sorry for it. 

“Cold. We speak only of duties. But she is not… These things take time.” 

Sorry, and _angered_. There is no excuse for this. “She’s behaving like a spoilt child.” 

“Jaime!” Brienne scolds sharply, mask gone. “Don’t. She’s… you _goad_ her—”

“ _Good!_ Someone ought to,” he whispers, tone low and harsh. “I have done plenty to incite her censure, and I would understand if she had no desire to see me. But this petty _pecking_ at you in the hopes she is proven right… it does no good for anyone, her least of all. Only a child or a madman would give so little regard to your loyalty, and our lady seems perfectly sane.”

She regards him as if he is an idiot, and perhaps he is. He is not wrong though. Not entirely.

“She has lost loyalty too many times before to trust it implicitly,” she says. Apologetic, as if this is somehow _her_ failure.

“That is perfectly well, but not at the price of your well-being. She cannot demand—” he bites the inside of his cheek, pushing the ruder thoughts away. “She cannot demand you prove your loyalty and then choose to punish you when it is not enough.”

“She isn’t trying to, Jaime,” Brienne says softly. “She’s not…”

The words hang between them for a moment too long. 

“Not Cersei?” he supplies. 

“I didn’t say that.”

There’d been no need to, the thought writ loud across her face. 

“She’s not. I would never claim so. But capitulating to her fears will not assuage them,” Jaime says. “She cannot have blind obedience and still trust your opinions, cannot press to prove that I will harm you and be surprised when I push back.”

“It’s not so simple as that.”

“It never is, Brienne.”

“And what would you have me do?” she snaps. Loudly. “It is not as if—”

“Stop treating it as a personal fault!”

“Some of us must face the consequences of our actions.” The speed in which her expression can shift from irritation to horror to stubborn righteousness is _remarkable_. He tries not to laugh. This, _this_ , is how they are best together. “Jaime, I didn’t mean—”

“You _did_.” 

Her mouth drops open, and a knock on the door halts whatever she intends to say. 

“Everything well, ser?” asks a voice on the other side.

 _Shit_. Jaime does not think they had been loud enough to hear clearly, but he casts his mind through the conversation all the same. Nothing that would implicate them in the deception comes to mind. 

“Perfectly well,” Brienne calls out. “The Kingslayer simply likes to run his mouth.”

He gives her a salacious look, a rather clear picture of—well, the glare she sends him is probably perfectly deserved, under the circumstances, but he knows what memory will be keeping him warm this evening. She shakes her head, though he’s fairly certain there is a smile threatening to escape the dour expression of hers. 

“It won’t come to trial,” Brienne asserts, her voice quiet once more. She’s staring at her hands. “I’m not sure it would be believed, given the history with Littlefinger.”

“If it must—”

“It _won’t_ ,” she repeats, looking up, a stubborn set to her jaw. “We’ve set it about that new information has arrived from King’s Landing. It’s not quite a lie—a raven arrived from your cousin yesterday, though it gets us no further. Arya is to go to Waters’ quarters during the evening meal, and any letter he attempts to send will be intercepted. And Sansa is not…” her hands flex. “She will see sense, and she means no harm. Not truly. Try to keep civil.”

“I thought I’ve been very civil. I’ve not once called her a blind idiot to her face.”

Brienne sighs and rolls her eyes, quite despairing of him. Good. It would not do for him to be too acquiescent. “I should not linger longer,” she says. “I will try to come tomorrow.” Then she stands, casts her eye around the small room instead of looking at him. “I am sorry, for what I said.”

He chuckles. “Was it unearned? Whatever I face for my sins is less than I deserve, Brienne. And to have your love…” He’s certain of it, as certain as he was when she’d first entered the room. It is not a fickle thing to her, not easily discarded or remembered only when convenient; it is a certainty, no matter how they might quarrel. 

“It was unkind.”

“Perhaps,” he concedes, standing. He reaches out to take her hand, raises it to his chest. “But I would rather have your anger a hundred times than any more indifference.” 

She looks at him, truly _looks_ at him, eyes soft and her hand above his heart. She is, always, a pillar of strength and warmth, the woman he would follow into hell gladly if only to keep her alive a moment longer, the woman who would not hesitate to aid him if he stumbled, and trusts he would do the same. It aches, sometimes, how much he loves her. He leans up, not daring to risk a brushed kiss but drawn to her all the same.

“I was never indifferent, Jaime,” she says, the words warm puffs of breath against his mouth. 

“I know that _now_ ,” he replies as he falls away, flashing her a sharp grin so she knows not to take him so entirely seriously. “It certainly felt as if you were, while I wallowed in all I had lost through my own stupidity, but...” He lifts her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles in an act of gallantry that has her turning red, probably in some combination of embarrassment and ire, “I was, very fortunately, mistaken.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Very fortunate,” she agrees. “Perhaps you ought not let it go to your head.”

Jaime shakes his head and chuckles. _She loves him_. It is impossible to be more fortunate than that. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, another delayed update. The winter holidays kicked my ass, then this chapter kicked my ass, and then it turned out to be a 5100 word chapter so I kicked my own ass... I appreciate your patience, truly. ♥
> 
> Also, this entire chapter can be summed up as "Jaime is protective and tells Sansa some Hard Truths, and Brienne realises that lying and excluding someone makes them feel lied to and excluded." How this took 5100 words I will not understand, but I hope you enjoy it all the same.

The door creaks open, followed by the rustle of clothing as someone slips inside. Jaime wakes but does not stir, his mind already calculating what the time must be (early morning at best, more likely the middle of the night—there are no sounds from the courtyard the small window overlooks, and very little light) and how quickly he can reach the sword beneath his mattress. (Quickly, it was placed there for the purpose, but he has turned in his sleep and perhaps not quick enough for a determined assassin.) Before he can decide whether to risk it, a voice cuts through the silence.

“What did you vow to my mother?”

He turns and opens his eyes, sees Sansa standing in the pale strip of moonlight and holding a candle in her hand. She looks half marble, and remarkably like—

“Fuck,” he says. “You look just like her. Quick, extinguish the flame before I begin to believe she’s come back from the dead to harangue me.”

She does not react but moves to the table instead, placing the candlestick upon its surface and sitting in one of the simple wooden chairs as if it is a throne. Jaime sighs and rises to a seated position, swinging his legs over the side of the bed even as he curses his half-dressed state. The coldness of the stone beneath his feet is the least of his exposures, and beneath his palm he still feels his sword hidden under the mattress, not that he entertains the thought of drawing it. 

“I’m waiting, Ser Jaime,” she says. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, as if this is any other conversation, and so he will treat it as one.

“Do vows even count if they are coerced at swordpoint?” he quips, tilting his head slightly as if in question. “The whole thing is rather a blur, what with the whole half-starved prisoner matter, but she had that same sneer on her face as you do now.”

It’s half a lie—where Catelyn was desperate enough to save her daughters she’d been all fire, Sansa is a mask of frozen calmness, but the similarity is striking nonetheless. Bloody wolves, the lot of them. 

“What did you vow to my mother?” she repeats.

“Get you and Arya from King’s Landing—which was impossible, but none of us could know that at the time. Not to take up arms against Starks or Tullys, which—” he gives a soft laugh “—I managed to keep in my own way, though I doubt your uncle recalls me with any kindness. To take you to safety, as if there is a single place in Westeros that’s truly safe. Still, you have a big castle and the stewardship, and the loyalty of your people. I’d say I kept to the spirit of the vows, if not the words.”

Sansa scoffs. “And why?”

“Well, she had her sworn sword hold a blade to my throat, which tends to make most men compliant.”

Oh, an arched eyebrow. An effective method, if he were not immune to it. “You’re not most men.”

He grins. “So good of you to notice, Lady Stark.”

“So I’ll ask again—why did you make the vow to my mother?”

“I’d been prisoner for a year, it seemed a lark,” he says with a shrug. And then, because he can practically feel Brienne’s disapproval radiating from wherever she’s currently resting her stubborn head, adds in a slightly more sincere voice, “Because as much as I loathed your mother, for good reasons, and as much as she loathed me for even better ones, I respected her. And perhaps because I recognised the urge to keep your family safe, damn the consequences.”

“Then why keep to it, after…” she trails off, sits impossibly straighter as she directs her sharp gaze directly at him. “You could have chosen to do nothing, it is not as if anyone would have held you responsible for it. The perfect Lannister heir, who can kill a king and emerge triumphant. Broken vows to a dead woman have nothing on that.”

He thinks of years of whispered _Kingslayer_ , how no-one had asked his reasons, certain they already knew or did not care so long as it served their purpose. He thinks of Brienne, her utter faith that he would see the Stark girls safe; it hadn’t been the reason he’d tried, in the end, but it had certainly made it an easier decision. Thinks of the oaths he’d sworn, knight and Kingsguard and Stewardsguard, all of them _meant_. 

“Despite appearances, I’m not in the habit of making vows I don’t intend to keep,” he says, bitterly. “If I could speak a few words to an armourer and pass on a good sword I had no use for—”

“Brienne’s sword is more than _good_ ,” Sansa interrupts. “And it should never have been yours to gift.”

“My father was conniving, but a coward. That was the least of my family’s sins against yours,” Jaime acknowledges, “you’ll hear no quarrel from me on that front.”

Sansa is still watching him, so composed it is near eerie. 

“That is all?” she asks. “It wasn’t a terrible inconvenience for you, so you threw money at the problem until it disappeared?”

“It _was_ quite a lot of money.” 

Sansa’s eyes narrow, and her nostrils flare. So much for her composure. Jaime gives her a particularly obnoxious grin.

“You refused Brienne’s help because she possessed a Lannister sword. What would you have done if a recently crippled Lannister had accompanied her? Would it have given her any anonymity at all? Perhaps I ought to have left my surviving children, my king, unprotected amongst murderers. It worked so well for Tommen, in the end,” Jaime spits. “My money was the only thing of use, whether or not that appeases your ladyship.” 

“And yet Brienne seems to have found herself fond of you all the same.”

 _She loves me_. It is better not to say it, a weapon so sharp it could cut them both, but he _knows_. 

“I got better with a sword,” he remarks instead, shrugging once more. “Does this conversation have a purpose? I mean, I _am_ bored enough that I don’t mind, but I was having a particularly pleasant dream and it feels as if this could have waited until morning.”

She still does not react, though the hands folded in her lap tense for just a moment. “Why are you here?”

“Well, you see, there’s a spy in Winterfell and—”

She flinches. “Enough, ser! This might be a game to you—”

“Let me make one thing clear, Lady Stark,” he growls, leaning forward, barely remaining seated. “ _This is no game_. I don’t know why you’ve come here tonight, what answers you are seeking that I have not given you a dozen times before. What I do know is this—I do not make oaths lightly. Not to your mother, not to Brienne, not to the North. Nor does my wife.” 

She must hear something in that, _my wife_ , words he can say now and mean them, because the barest hint of sadness crosses her face before it is gone, and it is so like Brienne’s own masked grief that it pains him. 

“Your mother knew that,” he continues—not soft, but softer at least. “Catelyn entrusted her most precious things to Brienne’s care. And now that loyalty is yours, and you are treating it as if it is worth _nothing_.”

 _That_ sparks a reaction, flashing eyes and bared teeth. “Do not presume to tell me how much I value Ser Brienne,” Sansa hisses. “I would be _dead_ without her. I would be—” Her cheek trembles and her hands twist, and Jaime remembers how thin a facade can be. “I _need_ her.”

He understands, more than he cares to admit; he’d live without her, he’s long stopped romanticising the idea of two halves of a whole, but _gods_ he needs her all the same.

“She would die for you,” he says, “without a second thought. She’d take on an entire army for you, fought the undead.” He looks at Sansa, hopes that she will believe this even if she believes nothing else.“Brienne gave you her word, because she believes you are worthy of it.”

Sansa gives a small snort, and her expression is… tremulous, but perhaps the most honest he has seen from her since she’d arrived. Perhaps the most honest since _he’d_ arrived, all those moons ago. “She believes _you_ to be worthy of her word, Ser Jaime, I cannot say the company is particularly illustrious.” 

He smiles. “Perhaps not. But you’d be a fool to mistrust it simply because she’d made one lapse in judgment. The circumstances were… exceptional. But the leader she believes you to be, the one I believe you could be… That is not a lapse in judgment.”

Sansa looks down at her lap, fingers carefully straightening the fabric of her dress, and silence draws out between them. Outside the window, a lone bird tweets. 

“You’ve hurt her.”

Sansa looks up sharply, an unreadable expression on her face. He hadn’t intended to say it, and the Seven know Brienne won’t thank him for it, but he thinks perhaps Sansa needs to know that the harm has gone both ways. That she is not alone with her pain. 

“And you speak from experience,” she replies, archly, deliberately. 

He inclines his head, acknowledging it.

“It is not something I take any enjoyment in,” he says. “I… I made decisions with the best of intentions, and some of them were wrong, or perhaps they were right but hurt her all the same. She would have every right to have banned me from her presence; no-one would blame her if she had.”

Sansa must hear some of what he does not say—that it was not easy, getting here, that it had taken patience and honesty as they’d fumbled towards some understanding; that generosity and love are so deeply intertwined with Brienne; that he would not have had the courage if she had not first—because she breathes deeply.

“Yet here you are, Ser Jaime.”

“To your continued consternation,” he observes wryly. But it’s not—he needs her to _understand_. “Brienne… she does not easily abandon those she has deemed worthy of her loyalty. I cannot say whether or not it is deserved, only return it with my own trust, and hope I forgive her mistakes with half as much grace as she forgives mine.” 

Sansa stands, smooths the plucked-at skirts and then picks up the candlestick.

“It is late, ser,” she says, and there is a smallness to her voice, a fragility. “I will leave you to your slumber.” 

Before Jaime can muster up a farewell of his own, she glides towards the door and slips away.

***

Arya is sitting in a chair when Brienne exits her chamber, feet propped on the table and an expression so deliberately bored that Brienne realises her plans to head to the Great Hall for breakfast are likely to come to naught. Still, there is hope that girl had found something when she’d investigated Fenton Waters’ sleeping quarters the night before, and if not there must be some other reason for her presence so early in the morn. 

“Arya.”

“Ser Brienne.” 

Silence stretches for a beat, then two, and then Arya grins. Whatever news she bears is not bad, and Brienne smiles back.

“Did you uncover something of use?” she asks.

“I did not.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Gendry came with me,” Arya says. “We thought it might be easier to explain my presence if we were caught if he were there too. Empty room, bed….” She shrugs.

Brienne manages, though barely, to keep from snorting at the transparent lie—it had been arranged so there was little chance of discovery, and Arya had every reason to be anywhere in Winterfell she wished. Not to mention her particular skills, the depths of which not even Brienne can fully grasp. But if it pleased her, Brienne would not call it into question. 

“Very wise,” she says. “Am I to presume that our favourite blacksmith found something?”

Arya nodded, and pulled a piece of parchment from her pocket. “A letter,” she explains. “I don’t think there’s much in it, though I made a copy so we did not risk him noticing it gone. It’s much the same as the other letters, addressed to Gilberd of Tumbleton—”

“Who has been dead for several years,” Brienne interjects, taking the copy Arya offers her, “so we have no clue who it truly is he writes to.”

Arya murmurs an agreement as Brienne glances at the half-drafted letter; the young woman has taken pains in replicating the errors, in case there is some meaning to be discerned from misspelt words and crossed out sentences, though there is no immediately observable pattern. The letter itself is conversational, as the others were, but there are too many little references to the running of Winterfell to seem innocent—mentions of guard shifts, which means Brienne must change the details once the letter is sent, and comments about Lady Stark that would be admiring if she did not know how derisive Fenton Waters is of authority. There’s an oblique reference to Jaime’s arrest, the closest they have to a real reason to believe that the man is involved in the plots. 

“Was this all?” she asks.

“Yes. And no.” For a moment, Arya looks uncertain before plunging ahead. “Gendry thinks—he said that the letter was odd. Too neat, and too well-composed, and the mistakes he makes are not what he would expect.”

“A message?” Brienne asks, looking at the letter more intently.

“Perhaps. It is more that he thinks that Fenton Waters must have had a fair amount of schooling, which is odd given his claims he was a poor orphan in King’s Landing. He’s certainly not Highborn though, it’s nowhere near _that_ literate.”

Brienne rolls the thought in her mind; it is speculation, as all this has been, but she feels it in her gut. “He’s not who he claims to be.”

“Nor is he writing to who he says,” Arya says. “There must be something we can do with this.” 

Brienne nods. These sorts of maneuverings are more Sansa’s purview than theirs, subtle, careful movements that can pin a man against the wall as easily as any sword or dagger, and often with less blood. The ache that has waxed and waned in Brienne’s chest since their rift became apparent flares bright; she has no doubt that her lady will aid them, for the good of Winterfell, but it will not alter the distance between them. 

“How is your sister?” she asks, as if it is easier not to invoke her name, only for Arya to roll her eyes.

“She’s not speaking to me any more than she is speaking to you,” she says. “Which is to say, the bare minimum, and begrudgingly. I overheard her speaking with Bran last night, which might be the only reason she—did you know that she was the one who wrote to King’s Landing, during Ser Jaime’s trial?”

Brienne remembers a conversation only a few days earlier, the letter sent south to vouch for Jaime a curiosity that has been overwhelmed by all that has happened since.

“Why? She has no love for him, and has been honest about that.”

Arya shrugs. “I don’t know. Perhaps she saw some advantage to it, or perhaps she simply believed it the right thing to do. All I know is that Bran was lecturing her on it, said she did not take this path only to abandon it now. Then she said something about not knowing the cost? I don’t know what he meant to reply, because a servant arrived bearing tea and they noticed I was there.” She gives an exasperated exhalation. “Honestly, the number of secrets in Winterfell is unbearable at times.”

“Some of them ours,” Brienne says, because the fact weighs heavily upon her even if she would not have done otherwise. “It’s little wonder Sansa does not—”

“Oh, don’t!” Arya exclaims, folding her arms. “Sansa is one of the cleverest people I know, but that doesn’t mean she can’t be as pig-headed and righteous as the rest of us. She’s kept just as many secrets as we have.”

“That does not absolve us of our own responsibility,” Brienne counters. “However pretty we make the words, there is no denying that Sansa does not trust us to tell the truth because we have chosen _not_ to.”

There is a hint of concession in Arya’s eyes, but she still argues, “And _she_ chose not to tell _us_ the truth.”

“We could go round and round on this all day, Arya,” Brienne says, trying to bite back her irritation. “I’m not saying that she has not— I _know_. I know that she is…It does not matter who did it first, or more. She trusts neither of us now, and we are of little good for it. I doubt she’s slept more than a few hours since the fire.” Nearly a sennight ago, now. Gods, _Brienne_ has barely slept, she cannot begin to imagine how little Sansa has. 

“Brienne—”

“Don’t. Please.” Her voice cracks. She can’t… in keeping some oaths, she has failed others. And perhaps that is inevitable, but she swore to Lady Catelyn to see her daughters safe, swore to Lady Sansa that she would aid her in the aftermath of war, and if she fails that… She knows she has done the best that she could, but it hurts all the same. “I will speak with her about the letter this evening.”

Arya nods, and Brienne quickly heads towards her desk to slip the copy of Fenton Waters’ letter amongst her own papers. If she hurries, she should still make the morning meal; with this new suspicion, she might even succeed in finding something of use about the man. Either way though, she needs to _do_ something, not wait for answers to come to her. She is nearly to the door when Arya speaks.

“Sansa and I—we used to quarrel, as children,” she says. “Terribly, at times. But we always forgave, in the end. She cares for you, Brienne. It will pass.”

Brienne gives her a strained smile, and hopes the other woman is not wrong. 

***

Brienne is waylaid on her way to the hall, a minor crisis that requires her attention, and misses Fenton Waters by mere moments as a result; her day is full enough that she cannot spare the time to seek him out, or visit Jaime as she’d hoped, though she knows a few hours’ delay will make little difference. She sees Sansa only briefly as she executes her duty, their paths crossing in a corridor mid-afternoon, Sansa regal and composed as she tells Brienne that she will join her in Brienne’s quarters in the evening to discuss matters, rather than her solar as is their usual custom. And Brienne cannot help but think that perhaps this is the moment Sansa dismisses her, sends her home to Tarth in disgrace, and even if she cannot regret her choices it _aches_ , like a pressed-upon bruise, to have failed in such a way. 

There is food and wine and a roaring fire in the hearth when Sansa arrives; she pauses at the doorway, dismissing the two guards who had accompanied her, and enters the room alone. She stands tall, the only sign of inner turmoil the motion of her fingers at her side.

“My lady,” Brienne says, rising to greet her. 

“Ser.” 

Brienne means to motion towards the chairs, offer her a drink, but before she can find her voice, Sansa speaks.

“I had an illuminating conversation with your husband,”

“What did the fool do now?” Brienne asks reflexively, then adds, “Lady Sansa, I apologise if—”

“No, no,” Sansa says, smiling slightly and drawing herself straight. “I believe he advised me, in terribly unsubtle ways.”

“His advice is often sound, if inelegant,” Brienne says cautiously. “But he still ought not to have.”

“It may be that they were words I needed to hear.” 

Brienne swallows, bracing herself for what is to come. “I see. I can, of course, advise you of a suitable replacement for commander before I depart Winterfell. It has been—”

“Absolutely not!” 

And then, to Brienne’s immense surprise, the young woman _hurls_ herself across the room to embrace her, pressing her head against Brienne’s shoulder as she mutters some incomprehensible words Brienne thinks might be an _apology_. She hesitates for a moment before awkwardly returning the hug, uncertain what has prompted this display but unwilling to pull away. This close, Brienne can feel the girl’s bones beneath her palms, the sharp jut of her scapula and the curve of her ribs, delicate and exposed in a way Brienne’s have not been since she picked up a sword, but still solid. 

They stay that way for several long moments, Sansa drawing an occasionally shaky breath as the fire behind them crackles. She eventually steps back, breaking the embrace, and when her eyes meet Brienne’s, Brienne realises the lovely Tully blue that is so reminiscent of Lady Catelyn is shining with unshed tears.

“Sansa—”

“Don’t you _dare_ believe I want you to leave,” she says, her voice quivering slightly. “If you wish to, I will—” her hands flutter in a helpless gesture. “I would find some way to bear it, in time, but I would miss you terribly. I know I’ve been dreadful—”

“Not dreadful.”

Sansa sniffs. “ _Dreadful_. I believed… I believed that I was doing the right thing, sparing you more pain, and instead I have hurt you.”

“No more than I you.”

It is not an easy thing to admit, but it is _right_ to do so; Sansa nods, acknowledging the truth of it.

“I think, perhaps, we ought to… speak with transparency, ser.” The words are carefully chosen, guarded, but undeniably an attempt at a truce. 

Brienne nods in return, but finds she does not know how to begin. She steps towards the table, pouring two goblets of wine with a hand that shakes only a little. Her back is still turned when she asks, “Did you write to King’s Landing, during his trial?”

It is the least of things, but it was the beginning. 

“I… was not aware you knew of that, but yes,” says Sansa. Brienne can hear the rustle her skirts as she shifts from foot to foot. “I cannot fathom the reasons for your attachment to the man, but I knew you cared for him, would grieve his death terribly even if he had left you. I did not know… I did not realise that he would be in danger, or that it would end in your marriage. I would not have asked that of you.” 

Brienne lifts one of the goblets to her lips, swallowing the slightly sour wine as she tries to hide her smile. It is strange to think that the promised happiness before her is little more than happenstance, but she will hold onto it with both hands. Not to the exclusion of everything else, but in addition to; she knows it is possible. She turns towards Sansa, offering the other goblet.

“Thank you,” Brienne says.

Sansa has tilted her head back, just enough to meet Brienne’s gaze; it’s raw, exposing for them both, but neither is willing to look away. Brienne owes her this, at least. 

“Then he came north and…” A single tear escapes, and Sansa dashes it from her cheek. “I could tell you were unhappy, and that you would never say so. The longer he stayed, the more unhappy you were, even as you began to welcome him. I could not… I questioned him, offered to send him away, gave him a place not just in my home but in my life, and every time I tried to make it better, to ease some of the burden, I became less certain…” A second tear, then a third are wiped away before Sansa takes the goblet and draws a long sip. “I put you in an unbearable position.”

Brienne remembers those first few moons—how carefully she’d spoken with Sansa even as the difficulties began to fade, how she’d shrouded everything in duty and past feelings, how quick Sansa was to make her allegiances clear, and feels an absurd urge to laugh. How close they were to understanding, and how widely they had missed. 

“I was unhappy,” Brienne admits, “but I did not blame you. I didn’t even blame him, because I knew…” She breathes deeply, knowing she must be truthful. “I knew that I loved him _because_ he had broken my heart, not in spite of it. It was a terrible action, but a choice he had to make. He proved himself to be the man I’d long believed him to be in that moment, and it hurt that it was not enough. But that was no-one’s _fault_. It was simply a grief to bear.”

Sansa reaches out, lays a hand on Brienne’s forearm, squeezes it. “Brienne…” 

“I think…” Emotions crowd her throat as Brienne struggles to find the words, retreats, regroups. “When I was a child, one of my father’s hounds became snappish, and only my father could approach him. Dougal had been wounded, you see, on a hunt, and by the time the kennel master could treat the injury corruption had set in. He lost a paw and retired to spend his days at my father’s feet, and until the end of his life he would not allow most people near the once-injured leg.”

“Jaime is a… dog?” Sansa asks, brow furrowed. 

Brienne laughs, the noise startling her into sloshing the last of her wine over the rim of her goblet, and after a moment Sansa joins her.

“He can be a cur, but no. I meant that I… I withdrew, in my grief, and even when the worst had passed, I had forgotten how not to hide behind it. I am not unhappy, Sansa. I am…” she hesitates, not yet prepared to explain that she is happy, that she will be happy, when it is nothing but her own instincts telling her so, but perhaps the smile that crosses her face says enough. “I am _grateful_ for the circumstances that led me here. I know you may never care for Jaime—”

“I don’t wish to see you hurt again, Brienne. I have seen what that man believes love to be; bedding and abandoning you might be one of his kinder actions.” 

Brienne understands, she does, and she knows that no list of all the things Jaime has done for her—armed her and trusted her and knighted her, fought beside her, supported her in a myriad number of ways big and small, loved her—will change Sansa’s mind, not with all the young woman has seen. She still shakes her head in disagreement. 

“I know you have no reason to trust him, and very little reason to trust me given the circumstances, and I cannot promise that he will not hurt me any more than I can promise that I will not hurt _him_ , but… I know who he is. I know he would not do it willingly, and that is enough, for me. Think it naive, if you must, but this is my choice.”

Sansa watches her for a long moment, evaluating her words, her mouth screwed into a moue.

“If he ever hurts you with intention, he had best hope he is nowhere near the North, because I will have his head,” she finally says. “And I _am_ sincere—he has been flippant about the suggestion, and I will have none of it.”

“Yes, my lady,” Brienne says, ducking her head. “And if he works against the North—”

Sansa waves a hand. 

“If I was concerned about that, I’d never have asked him to join the Stewardsguard,” she says. “Not even my loyalty to you will allow me to endanger the kingdom.”

Brienne cannot—she needs more wine. A lot more wine. Something to do with her hands, her mouth, before she asks things like _How have we ended **here** if you have so little concern?_ and perhaps simply _Why?_ as if the latter will encompass all the questions she is unable to articulate.

“More wine?” she asks, turning on her heel. “Or something to eat?”

A moment of silence, Brienne staring at the wooden table laden with a meal, and then, “Have I offended you, Ser Brienne?”

No, not offended. Confounded, perhaps. 

“Not at all,” she manages to say, strangled though it is. “I thought you might be hungry. You don’t… you don’t eat enough, or sleep.”

It is not a new argument. Sansa laughs, a lovely, light twinkle; it is a sign of easiness, and Brienne feels some of the tension that has driven her this far drain away in an instant, leaving her exhausted in its wake.

“I suppose you do?” Sansa asks. 

“Likely not,” Brienne admits, plating the cheese and cured meats. She hands one to Sansa and moves towards the chairs before the fire, slumping into a seat; Sansa takes the other, and while she seems more composed, the firelight shows the tracks of spilled tears.

They eat in silence for a moment, too hungry for much else, and when the edge has fallen away, Brienne speaks again. 

“I did not set out to lie. I know that will mean little, but I want that to be clear.”

“I know,” Sansa says softly. “Neither did I.”

The admission is enough, and the words come—uneasily, haltingly, with tears and apologies and missteps, but they come. How Sansa had known they were lying, but did not know of what, how isolating it had been. How Brienne had reacted, so used to being the only one who trusted Jaime that the first threat against him had her scrambling to familiar defenses. How much they had missed each other, how ashamed they had been and how insurmountable the truth had become, more every minute of every day. How easy it was to believe that they were protecting the other woman. The words stretch and entangle them, promises to find a better way forward cocooning them both. It does not give every answer, but Brienne has learnt that solutions are not as important as a determination to _try_. It is not everything, but it is enough to start. 

It is only hours later, when Sansa has curled into her chair and drifted off to sleep, that Brienne realises she had not mentioned Fenton Waters’ letter. 


End file.
